Just About Broke

Listen up: I know you like to be amused or you wouldn't be here. So today, for a history of how Thanksgiving came about, go see Courtney. She's the 17-year-old daughter of Jamie Dawn, and in this piece she out-Feelgoods Feelgood Haines. (I love to see young people get into the b**g world. Go see her, darnit!)

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I've taken a big hit in the old monthly income whatzis, so I guess I'll have to go back to work. Ol' Hoss has always lived by his wits, and can do it again. Here's an idea I got in the percolator:

Family Trees Worth Hewin' and Havin'

Family tree forms you get in stationery stores are pretty standard, usually with a bunch of lines and places for dates, and with maybe a scraggly old tree in the background. This is the kind of non-thinkin' that gives Ol' Hoss a touch of the Midas Touch. Consider: Ol' Hoss's Family Trees to Fit the Family Right.

"Spinsters' Delight." This is THE tree book for families with lots of virgins in them. The centerpiece will be, of course, a Cherry tree, with blossoms honed to perfection by Japanese precision silk screen artists. I guess there will have to be some cherries on the ground, withered and/or sere. Nicely rounded off with biography of Queen Victoria.

"Groucho Special." Was the Patriarch a follower of the Rime of the Ancient Curmudgeon doctrine? You will want Ol' Hoss's Crabapple tree, the pages of which will be infused with lemon juice. The crabapples will be highlighted in 20-carat gold leaf from the Ebeneezer Scrooge School of Art. Includes biographies of Aaron Burr and Calvin Coolidge.

"Psychos and Maniacs." Gideons will want to get these in all the Bates Motels. There will be specialized versions, giving buyers the option of choosing various kinds of trees for nutzos, such as English walnut, black walnut, chestnut (open fire in background), oak, pine, cashew (bless you/gesundheit), macadamia (Hawaii only), filbert (from the farm of my friend, Hazel Nutt), Brazil, almond and pea (hand drawings by Jimmy Carter). Comes with complete biographies of Rasputin and Charles Manson.

"Normal Family Trees." There are so few normal families, we might not recover the silk screen costs. Economists would say this is "too bad."

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My favorite word today is woe. Adj., this is the pits. Def.; What you often are meted when you mistakenly let your "ex" know you are "seeing somebody."*

(* Does not apply to Aral Pez, who is best friends with her ex.)

Back in the Saddle Again

I never expected so many people to drop in to sympathize with me on the death of my wife. I read and appreciated all the comments. I accepted all the hugs and back pats I could get. I am not ashamed that I cried a lot.

Many times in the past when some of you were having a particularly bad time, Old Hoss has offered "counsel," which consisted largely of this: When you can't do something about something, let it go. Say to yourself, "So it goes," and get on with your life. So, so it goes. Thank you, all.

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Several days after my wife died, my chum Feelgood Haines, a veteran of the Old and Wizened People's Home where we live, came down to see how I'm getting along.

Hoss: "I'm okay now."
Feelgood: "Well, you're kinda lucky, you know."
Hoss: "How's that?"
Feelgood: "You and your wife could look back on some good times. When Lot's wife died, she was turned into a salt lick for camels. You wouldn't want that."

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Hoss: "Tell me, Feelgood. You think there's a Heaven?"
Feelgood: "Well, there either is, or there isn't."
Hoss: "You're pretty deep, philosophically."
Feelgood: "The hell. Don't you remember? It was you who told me that."

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Feelgood: "Well, anyway, Hoss, it could have been worse."
Hoss: "How's that?"
Feelgood: "What if God died?"

(Hoo boy. Feelgood 1, Holy Ghost 0.)

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My favorite word today is shirtsweat. Adj., kind of like a sweatshirt. Def.: Descriptive of men who like to prove anti-perspirants don't work.

My Wife, Betty Maudlin, 1937-2005

(I am sorry to sneak up on you like this; there was no other option.)

Obituary

BETTY J. MAUDLIN
06/06/1937-11/18/2005

Betty Jo Maudlin of Salem died today under the terms of Oregon’s Death With Dignity Act. She is grateful to the people of Oregon for giving her the opportunity to end a life that had become no life at all. Betty was a victim of Progressive Supranuclear Palsy, a little-known neurological disease for which there is no cure.

Before contracting this disease, Betty was extremely active. She loved to garden and to golf. She was a volunteer for the Salem Outreach Shelter, and Willamette Valley Hospice. She delivered Meals on Wheels. She was a volunteer and mentor at Highland School, and a mentor at Bush Elementary School.

Betty was a whiz at sewing. She made several prom dresses and once made the official Oregon State Fair flag.

She was much admired and appreciated everywhere she worked. Her jobs included office manager for Gov. Tom McCall’s first campaign for governor; administrative assistant for Attorney General Lee Johnson and for Johnson again when he became a Multnomah County Circuit Judge. She served eight years as administrative assistant for Gov. Victor Atiyeh, and later worked in the Community Relations Department of Salem Hospital.

Betty was born in Salem to Joseph and LaVaja Sexton. She is survived by her husband, Gene; daughters Shelley Heller, Salem, and Kathy Martin, Sheridan; and son Frank Smith, Salem; a sister, Evelyn Cole of Olympia, Wash.; three brothers, Cliff Sexton and Bill Sexton of Salem, and Vernon Sexton of Bend; and three grandchildren.

She was cremated and her ashes are interred at Restlawn Cemetery.

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(I will resume posting in about a week.)

Explaining Metrics

Feelgood Haines and I are driving down I-5 to go to the Oregon Historical Society meeting. I say to Feelgood, designated driver and full-blooded historian of the Old Folks' Home where we are both incarcerated, "You ain't driving very fast."

Feelgood: "I'm goin' 100."
Ol' Hoss: "You dope. That's 100 KILOMETERS per hour. You're only doing about 60 American."
Feelgood: "I have decided to live metric. 'One hundred centimeters, one meter, buckle my shoe; 1,000 meters, one kilometer, sheesh, who knew?'"

Hoss: "What's wrong with inches and feets and yards, and gills and rods and acres?"
Feelgood: "Metric is lots simpler. And don't start on thinking about how to convert things, like multiplying gallons by 3.8 to get liters. Which I guess, isn't true in Canada, where you have to multiply by 4.546. So see, that don't make it simple after all."

Hoss: "So how is it better?"
Feelgood: "Because the rest of the world says it is. We is the last bastion of the 1/4 inch. Don't that begin to make you feel lonely? Here's a memory crutch for you Hoss. You know how quaint everybody thinks the English people in England talk? That's because they got a metric system. Think of it this way:

"The math that comes from the quaint,
"Is much, much better than ain't."

Hoss: "So, summing up, what is the advantage of metric?"
Feelgood: "You drive 100, like me. It's a lot safer."

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My favorite word today is glue. N., nectar of the Gods. Def.: The sticky residue left on your coffee table when rose petals fall and overstay their leave.

What Would Freud Say?

I have some strange dreams. This is last night's.

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My wife and I and another couple are in a rubber boat in the Gulf of Mexico, survivors of a shipwreck. We are drifting north, and we get close enough to shore that I can get ahold of my New Orleans buddy, Se7en, who describes our plight to 911. The Coast Guard misses us and we wind up at Key West in the Florida Keys. There to greet us are representatives of FEMA.

FEMA #1: "Welcome to the United States of America. Any evacuee friend of Se7en's is a friend of ours."
Hoss: "We ain't no evacuees. We is shipwreckers."
FEMA #1: "Yes, well, but we have run out of evacuees and need test subjects so you will be suitable. We will send the other couple and your wife along, and keep you for examination and ransom. We want to see whether your wife will voluntarily move your residence from Salem to Portland, Oregon. You see, we have a lot of housing in Portland that is not being used."
Hoss: "I don't think Salem was hit by no hurricane."
FEMA #1: "We can't possibly think of a reason that would matter to us."

FEMA #2: "Now, then, Mr. Hoss, here is today's dinner. You will notice it is served on a cart with linen covering. We have found these are much more acceptable than Meals Ready to Eat."
Hoss: "With wine?"
FEMA #2: "Yes, the President feels supporting the California wine industry may turn the state from Blue to Red, which would show the Japanese we are serious about reducing the National Debt. And nothing is too good for our fellow would-be evacuees who just happen to be wealthy wine growers."
Hoss: "Silverware?"
FEMA #2: "Yes. We have found that plastic was demeaning, encouaging evacuees to think of themselves as Second Class. As a side benefit, this involves us in the mental health game, a program enhancement needed if our Director is going to justify his salary. Frankly, Mr. Hoss, as you can see, FEMA is all about You."

FEMA #3: "We will now take you to WalMart to test your salvaging capabilities.... All right, Mr. Hoss, see what you would salvage in the event of a hurricane."
Hoss: "I reckon I would pick up a pack of Sen-Sen, to keep me from smoking. That's about all I need."
FEMA #3: "Mr. Hoss! This is not suitable. At the very least you would need to liberate a laptop computer, if for nothing else than to help us keep track of the black people who are looting. Frankly, I don't think you have the interest of the government at heart."

FEMA #$4: "Now, then, Mr. Hoss, you have been floating around on the ocean for so long you turned exceedingly brown from all the sunshine, and we think you could pass as Cuban."
Hoss: "Why do I want to be a Cuban?"
FEMA #4: "We can get you free tuition at the University of Miami if you are a Cuban baseball player."
Hoss: "I am 75 and 49/365ths years old. I can't play baseball."
FEMA #4: "There you go! Now you can see why we need another hurricane right away. Some of our theories need fine-tuning, and a direct hit on Miami would be beyond our wildest dreams."

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My favorite word today is smug. Adj., with sneering. Def.: The look on the face of someone who knows which one of you is going to Hell.

I Did Too Finish My 50,000 Word Novel

I shoulda known that somebody would actually count up the two pieces that make up my 50,000-word novel and say, "That ain't even close to 50,000 words."

Well, I KNOW that, you bozos. What you failed to take into account is my plan to add 48 more pictures, each of which is worth a thousand words. So's there: 50,000 words EXACTLY, more or less, just like I said. It is always tough to put one over on Ol' Hoss.

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My buddy MuzikDude is awful close to 300,000 hits, he says, and he wants to get rounded off. So go give him some love. He's a good ol' Colorado boy with good friends and good philosophy (and a dandy wife). So please go hit him.

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The boy stood on the burning deck,
His feet were almost blistered.
A nail tore out his Sunday pants,
And now he wears his sister's.

Or,

At the bar, at the bar, where I smoked my first cigar,
And the burden of my heart rolled away,
It was there by chance that I tore my Sunday pants
And now I can wear them every day.

And,

"I see London, I see France, I see someone's dirty pants..."

(Boy howdy we had fun with pants in grade school....)

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Judy has told me we need some new rules for living, one of which should take care of this situation:

"I should NOT be the cashier. By the time I look up from sliding my card, entering my PIN, pressing 'Enter,' verifying the amount, deciding 'No, I don't want cash back,' and striking 'Enter' again, the kid who is supposed to be ringing up my groceries is standing there eating my Almond Joy. I'd say something, except I've been called to do some cleanup on Aisle 9."

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My favorite word today is leftovers. N., "I've done it again." Def.: The shredded Kleenex pieces you find in the washing machine because your forgot to search your child's pockets.

One for the Books

But no blood was shed, for Lucifero's shot went wild, thanks to his getting shot square in the .... Wait a minute. Do you know where you are?

You have come square into the book "Fear and Loathing Amongst the Pecans," Ol' Hoss's entry in the NaNoWriMo contest. What is going down is people have signed up to write a 50,000-word novel during November. It is not a real contest, of course, because Ol' Hoss will finish long before anybody else. I dropped 10,000 words on you yestiddy, and will do the other 40,000 today.

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Fear and Loathing Amongst the Pecans

(Chapters 78-95)

But no blood was shed, for Lucifero's shot went wild, thanks to his getting shot square in the chest by a blast from Sheriff Bearly Harms's .20-20 filled with pepper spray. The sheriff's main job these days was to enforce Tennessee's "No Shotgun Marriages Act" after a spate of butt-crack shootings in 2004. He broke up the proposed marriage of Clem Hackleberry the Noble to Emmy Demons the Rotund. This union had been proposed not by Clem but by Lucifero Demons the Burlap Bag Maker/Clovis Point Re-seller and father of Emmy on accounta Emmy was 10 months' fragrant.

This proposal was Feared and Loathed by Clem, who was reading "Sabu the Elephant Dung Beetle Boy" during the wedding ceremony.

The High Sheriff's other job was to enforce the "Anti-Cow Tipping Act" of 2003. This was passed because it was found that some farmers were paying a few of their cows more than the others if they gave more butterfat. Tips were ranging as high as 30 percent in some of the better restaurant hay barns. This, of course, offended The Green Party, which controls the Tennessee Legislature, because Americans are already too fat. (The Green Party's major bill in the current legislative session is to replace Jack Daniels with soybean creme soda as the official "State Drink." Krispy Kremes were outlawed in 2002.)

Clem Hackleberry got clean away, of course, and became a NASCAR driver because he found out the groupies knew about The Pill.

Emmy Demons, the would-be bride of Clem Hackleberry (a.k.a. Dr. No), when last seen was doing the "during" part in the MSN Windows Media story of "The Pregnancy of Britney Spears." (GP-13)

Lucifero Demons never got over spitting and hacking from the pepper spray, so he became a poster boy for the anti-smoking bunch, joining "The Marlboro Metrosexual" and "Joe Formerly Cool" on billboards.

Flesh Gordon bought the preacher's house and turned it into a tourist trap where people could pay $3 per each to see where six coon dogs lapped up a pan of brownies and a preacher's wife in one sitting.

(The author of this historical romance, when asked what muse he relied upon for this story, said, "As Yogi Berra always said, 'You can see a lot by observin'.'")

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(There! 50.000 words, exactly. I know you worried whether I could do it, but I had some words in reserve. I was going to have Lucifero say, "What the hey?" when he got shot by the pepper spray, but I didn't need the wordage.)

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My favorite word today is shin*. N., By the hair of my shinny, shinny shin. Def.: Device for finding furniture in the dark.

* From my buddy Oz.

Never Too Late for a Born Writer

This is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and some of my buddies is participating. What the deal is that you pledge to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. People I can think of who is doing this gig include Angie, who seems to be doing well, as is Raehan. Struggling but plugging are Born Fool, along with Vicki and Jona.

It is kind of late to start, but I think Ol' Hoss is also up to the challenge, since I don't got nothin' to do but read your lame stuff, which I can catch up on later. So, here goes:

Fear and Loathing Amongst the Pecans

Clem Hackleberry stood at the makeshift altar, lookin' a little peaked. It is no wonder, for he has had a hard life. He has rode the railroad and been railroaded. He has been cussed and discussed. Clem has been shot and shot back, shit shot and shot the shit. He has owned dogs, wore dog tags, got dog-tired, tired out his dogs, ate hot dogs, and bedded some dogs. He always says, "Bein' a 'bo ain't easy, so if it's all the same to you, I'd rather have a handout than work for food."

Emmy Demons stood at his side. She appears to have been rode hard and put away wet. She is visibly pregnant, volubly pregnant. "Hurry it up, preacher. I think my water just broke," she said, brokenly. Emmy is about 5'5" in all directions; sort of a crooked-toothed Tennessee girl, the kind that some people --- but not many -- like. She and her Pap raise pecans around Dyersburg, near ol' Poopsie (Janie S.), a smart, genteel lady who is somewhat fearful of the annual dropping of the pecans but has not yet lost her mind.

Hovering behind and slightly to the left of Clem is Lucifero Demons. Lucifero is a hard-bitten (note to self: pretty stale characterization; maybe hard biter, instead?) pecan merchant. Not exactly a pecan merchant; he sews burlap sacks to put the pecans in. He loathes pecans. (Publisher's note: "I like the way Ol' Hoss has worked in the 'Fear and Loathing' right away in this bodice ripper. Let's get that on the book jacket.")

"Yah, I urge you to get with it, preach," Lucifero says, urgently. He gestures with the shotgun, which is loaded with double 00 shot, which can make a serious mess of your buttcrack. (Publisher's note: "Mention that there is some comic relief from all the tension. People always liked Mark Twain, and this writer reminds me of Ol' Mark.")

The preacher obliges. "We are gathered here today to make a union in the old confederacy -- did you know I made that up? -- of Clem and Emmy..."

Clem bolts for the door. A blast of double 00 is heard. The preacher's wife drops a hot pan full of brownies, which are devoured by six coon dogs. It is bedlam, which was the name of insane asylums in years past.

(To be continued...)

(Note to self: Preacher's characterization needs some work. For instance, is he wearing spats? A Pepsi guy, or Dr Pepper?)

(As you can see, Hoss ain't no johnny-come-lately in the writin' game. This is 10,000 words, easy, so I'm a fifth of the way done. Writin' comes a lot easier than 'rithmetic. It is fortunate for us writers that computers can do math, but not "Beowulf." And even if a computer COULD do "Beowulf," why would it want to?)

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My favorite word today is clandestine. N., the appointed place. Def. Where the Tan Lucy Pez or Unga Chunga families go on vacation.

Back When Nobody Spelt Good

I am continually amused by people, like the ones in Kansas, who keep trying to get the Bible in the classroom. The latest ploy is to suggest that the world is so complex it must have been put together by "intelligent design" (i.e. God, or Big Ernie). They are holding onto this idea, by damn, tighter than stink on shit.

Yeah, remind me to thank the guy who gave us mosquitoes, cobras, crocodiles, West Nile virus, Avian flu, AIDS, cow manure, lutefisk and cramps. But, of course, it weren't no "guy." Those early writers, like Mathew, Mark, Luke and John, were all dyslexic. So what they meant, and we all know this is true, is that "The Dog did it." Probably a pit bull.

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The only difference between a beach party and a wedding is after the wedding only one fella is guaranteed to get lucky.

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My favorite word today is sin. N., go and do it no more. Def.: When those bozos up north take the New Year's Day swim, they come out bearing false witness about how wonderful it was.

Have You Had Your Silicone Today?

You know what they say: Diamonds Implants are forever.

(Thanks a tip of the hat to Tan Lucy Pez for this lovely (?) picture. I saw this at breakfast, so I'm taking the rest of the day off to hurl a few times.)

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My favorite word today is smarts. Adj., as in not smart. Def.: Descriptive of the pain felt by the guy who catches his whang in his zipper.

The History of Smoking

Between the two of us, I reckon me and our Old Folks' Home historian Feelgood Haines know everything there is to know about smoking. I was reminded of this by my cousin, Lois, who thinks I should tell you about her brother, Delton.

Delton was in the Air Force, and crashed and died up in a training mission. It was neat when these jet airplanes flew over the gravesite with one place in the formation empty to show their "missing comrade." But what was neater was when Delton and I learned to smoke.

We were about 12, and we had us some newspaper, some stick matches, and some juniper bark. We wrapped up some juniper and puffed away, hidden from sight from our folks. Juniper bark doesn't draw like cigarettes, so we had to put the burning end in our mouths to get any smoke. Boy that was swell. We both burned our tongues, got smoke in our eyes, coughed a lot, and said we'd do it again tomorrow, which we didn't. Boy we were stupid.

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Hoss: "Who said, 'What this country needs is a good 5-cent cigar?'"

Feelgood: "Thomas Marshall, ol' Woody Wilson's vice president. Feelgood 1, Hoss 0."

Hoss: "Who said, 'It is now proven, beyond a doubt, that smoking is a leading cause of statistics?'"

Feelgood: "Fletcher Knebel. Feelgood 2, Hoss 0."

Hoss: "Who said, 'You continue to keep score like that, I'm gonna kick your ass?'" Feelgood: "Sir Walter Raleigh, inventor of pipe tobacco, along with the Seminoles. Feelgood 3, uh, never mind."

Hoss: "Who invented the corncob pipe?"

Feelgood: "Popeye the Sailor Man. Improved version by Mammy Yokum."

Hoss; "Who invented Anasazi beans?"

Feelgood: "The Mohawks?"

Hoss: "Ha! Hoss 3, Feelgood 2."

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My favorite word today is coincidence. Adj., it's gotta be the E.S.P. Def.: You and your husband decide, independently but at the same time, not to have your belly button pierced.

Assorted Fragments

This is some stuff that has to find a home other than my Old Folks' Home.

Judy (kenju) often sends me little gems. For instance, the Senior Dress Code. This is just some things that don't go together:

--Mini-skirts and support hose.
--Speedos and cellulite.
--Unbuttoned disco shirt with heart monitor.
--Inline skates and a walker.
--Thongs and Depends.

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Poopsie sent me A Little Book of Wit and Wisdom for my birthday (along with a beautiful orange/white bracelet for my wife, which she wears every day). Here's wisdom:

--"I was born in very sorry circumstances. My mother was sorry, and my father was sorry as well." --Norman Wisdom.

--"A 'woman driver' is one who drives like a man and gets blamed for it." --Patricia Ledger.

--"I don't want to achieve immortality through my work...I want to achieve it by not dying." --Woody Allen.

--"The male is a domestic animal which, if treated with firmness and kindness, can be trained to do most things." --Jilly Cooper.

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From Ivy:

The way to tell if you're old is if going braless pulls all the wrinkles out of your face.

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How come every country I know of will accept American money, but stores in the United States won't accept foreign money? Somebody told me it was because there aren't enough slots in the tills, which might be right. But why the heck do they keep making cigar boxes?

You know, they make a lot more cigar boxes than they make cigars to fill 'em. The only people who smoke cigars anymore are the ones who want lip cancer instead of lung cancer. But lots of cigar boxes are made for storing things. Anything. Like Canadian coins and Pesos and Rupees and Bahts and Euros. And shoestrings that don't match and dead batteries. I think if the U.S. became money friendly it would please the Chinese more than anything because they are good at printing money; any denomination, any country. It's like Rolexes.

Cigar boxes are the junk drawers of the past, present and future. Better get a cigar box franchise, like me.

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My favorite word today (from Anon. via Judy) is sweater. N., knit one, purl two. Def.: A garment worn by a child when its mother is cold.

Food for Thought and Eats

The new National Food of Illinois is bison (buffalo, to New Yorkers). Says so right here in my local news- paper: "The owners of Bison Bluff Farms (Clifton and Kim Howell) hope the shaggy animals known for their lean, protein- rich meat will one day become a lucrative business."

This story also says there are more than 400 bison ranches nation-wide, with 40 of them in Illinois. Some 3,000 bison voted in Chicago's last election.

This got me to thinkin' about national foods elsewhere. Every place in the U.S. except in Illinois the turkey is the National Food. Angie told me it was grits; she could be right. But I think it's turkey, on accounta somebody discovered late last century that it's really good fried in deep fat, which makes it a lot more fatty than bison but who cares? Everybody is already fat; a little more won't hurt.

Also except: The National Food in Hawaii is the porker. Every holiday over there somebody plants a pig in the ground, slow-cooks it like in a crock pot and everybody luaus happily ever after.

The National Food of cannibals is the Long Pig, which is you and I. They say Long Pig tastes like chicken; I wouldn't know.

The National Food of Mexico is Taco Bell, with a side of pinata. The National Food of Canada is Labatt's.

The National Food of England is whatever isn't that bad stuff they served yesterday.

The National Food of France is some tiny portion of something or other with chocolate sauce dribbled around the edges of your plate, preceded, accompanied with, and followed by wine.

The National Food of China must be Panda, because now there ain't hardly any left. But what are left are pretty healthy eatin', because they are all free-range.

I don't know if there are any more countries. There might be.

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My favorite word of the day is diminished. Adj., what's that up ahead? Def.: Descriptive of the view through your windshield when it's raining and there's a large leaf pinned under your wiper which won't blow away even at 60 miles an hour.

Way Back When I Was Younger

Here in the Bide-a-Wee Home for the Aged, I got a piece of toast with an image on it, and naturally I got it posted on eBay. It's an image of the Virgin Clarence.
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I been thinking for a while of favoring you with something I wrote before you knowed me good, and now's the time. Here are edited versions of two pieces I wrote in January. You'll figure out, by the time you're done, why both pieces are best by appearing on the same day.

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It's a Rap

Old Folks' Home Activity Director: "Announcement. Today a band will be playing at 3 p.m. in the Fireplace Room."

Hulda Hearsay: "I hope it's not going to be any of that awful Saran Wrap music."

AD: "I think that's just plain Rap, Hulda."

Hulda: "I don't care if its Plain Wrap, Fur Wrap, Saran Wrap or Christmas Wrap. I won't have it! Oh, that's a good idea. Have them play 'White Christmas'."

AD: "Christmas is 11 months away, Hulda."

Hulda: "What have you got against Bing Crosby?"

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Music Hath Charmin

This morning in The Home we were treated, as every Tuesday at breakfast, to the piano playing of Jeremy, a student from the Oregon School for the Blind. He is 16, with the "intelligence" of a 5-year-old. Yet he can learn a piano piece in 15 minutes just by hearing it once. He is touted as a prodigy.

A reporter came today from a Portland boob tube station to record Jeremy for posteriors posterity. After Jeremy finished, the reporter asked some of us for our reaction to the whiz kid.

Hazel Nutt (yes, her folks were filbert farmers): "I don't know how he does it."

Carolina Sister: "I'm so proud of him."

Hulda Hearsay: "I don't know why I have to sit here at breakfast and be abused by piano music. I hate piano music. Next thing you know they'll be running a drum and bugle corps through here, or bagpipers, or accordion players. You know what perfect pitch is? When you throw a banjo into the dumpster and it hits an accordion. Then it will be kazoos and mouth harps and ukeleles. When does it stop?"

Hulda (continuing): "And not only that, but in December he never once played 'White Christmas'. Why does everybody have it in for Bing Crosby?"

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My favorite word today is cohere. N., a grand plan. Def.: You and your buddy agree to meet at the mall in front of the "You Are Here" map.

Feet on the Ottoman

As I advised y'all, I am taking Saturday and Sunday off, sort of, these days. Just a smidgeon here and there, to keep my hand in. This being Monday, here's the picture you get which I was supposed to publish Sunday, instead of the smart remarks I posted when I forgot to take Sunday off.

My niece visited the Old and In the Way Home yesterday (or some damn day), and I showed her some of the features I'm using, such as Bill Pay and Pay Pal.

She said: "My husband won't let me do any of that. He is a man of his time -- the 18th Century."

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My favorite phrase today is "Always lead; never lag." N., a major advance. Def.: Descriptive of the latest pharmaceutical advertised on TV and about which you are urged to ask your doctor, but for which there is no known disease.

The Dawn of 'The New Education'

Every day I read the b**gs of several teachers, all of whom are frustrated by their charges all the time at one time or another. I feel so sorry for 'em I can't let this go on any longer.

And, get this, there might be some money in it. Ol' Hoss always needs money. Here's my idea, on which I am getting a patent leather or Wilbur/Orville CopyWright:

Ol' Hoss's Fix the Education System, Solve the Immigration Problem, Ease the School Tax Burden, Give the Teachers Some Help Schematic. (This will probably be shortened some, to Ol' Hoss's Fixit Scheme.)

The difficulty these days is most kids don't wanna learn anything. The solution: Don't try to teach 'em anything but one thing. The ones who do want to learn are so few we could have a one-on-one student-to-teacher ratio, and be just as good off as we are now.

The "one thing"? How to use Google/Yahoo/Ask Jeeves.

Think of it. Almost everything a kid needs to know is in one of them search engines. What is 2 + 2? Ask Google. Where is Chad? Ask Yahoo. Where can I get some dope? Google it. How can I build a bomb? See: Google. Who were Ponce de Leon, Davy Crockett, James Madison, Jean Baptiste Charbonneau*? You got it, Jeeves.

Teach 'em Google and sweep 'em out the door. If they need a job, they can do all the stuff the Mexicans are here to do because the blacks won't do it because the poor white trash won't do it. (I KNOW all those are slurs, but it's what I read now and then and I figured I throw it in here because, just in case, there's some truth in it. Anyway, kids 14 and older can paint houses or pick lettuce just as well as immigrants, which we then won't need no more, so la de da to that.)

Kids can learn almost anything from Google. How to build a house, for instance. But this is best learned from watching somebody else build a house. Then they learn first-hand how many pounds of nails they need, for instance. And if they can't count, they can use their fingers and toes. In the Ozarks, they can get up to 22 pounds that way.

Do NOT, however, let these bozos build stairways in these houses. That takes talent they will never have. I know this husband of one of my teacher b**ggers who builds stairways. Mr. Stargazer, who belongs to Teacher Woman (Margaret), is an artist. To see examples, go here. Kids who don't wanna learn anything except how to best show off their butt-crack will never be able to do it. It would be dangerous to climb any stairs these illiterate bozos built.

Somebody might be thinkin': Wait a minute! You gotta be able to read to Google. Well, not everybody needs a readin' job. Somebody has to kill turkeys for Thanksgiving. Don't take no readin' skill to do that.

I could go on all day. But won't. Enjoy your newfound freedom, teachers. Glad to help out.

(*Son of Sacajawea, who is buried in Oregon, so I didn't need no damn Google.)

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My favorite word today is brake.N., an infernal machine. Def.: On the grocery cart you get is the one with the wheel that turns sideways, effectively halting you in mid-aisle.

Hoss Has the Day Off

In case there was still any doubt about whether the roll goes "over the top" or "under," this settles the debate. Glad, as usual, to help out.

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My favorite word today is chagrin. Adj., what a waste. Def. At the family reunion, yours is the only salad nobody eats.

Your Life Made Really Easy -- for a Price

I just got interviewed, via email, by the AARP monthly newsletter. They is doing a story about "older" b**ggers, and I got recommended. One of the questions was: "Do you have a favored topic, and what led you to focus on it?" I said, "My favorite topic is rutabagas, because nobody else was writing about rutabagas. Now, unfortunately, lots of people are. I might be shifting to a new topic: What do dung beetles do with their own dung?"

Nah, I didn't really say that. Wish I had.

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Listen, for a tenth of your monthly income would you like to live a life of ease? we can help each other out. You send me money, and I send you:

Ol' Hoss's Cradle to the Near-Grave Service. I'll be right up-front with you. I badly need money to pay for teeth implants. I have decided I don't want to be gumming my food in Heaven. Or in Hell, either. (I wonder which one of those places features "Shit on a Shingle" creamed chipped beef on toast?)

Here's the scam offer:

I am going to send you a cradle for your bedroom. (This is sort of Rube Goldbergian, but much better.) You can rent out the rest of the house, for you will never need it. Here's how it works:

Imagine a giant cradle hanging from your ceiling. It is a bed that you can move into a lot of shapes like those you see on paid-program TV. Changing positions is what you do for exercise. You can actually make it rock back and forth -- if that's good to get babies to sleep, think of what it will do for you.

There is a movable lid down where your nether regions (genitalia?) reside. Beneath that is a hose that carries your waste off to the potty, which is sensory-operated when it hosts a brown log (also will whisk away mustard color). A fine mist will arise out of your dump-hole and spray you spic and span, followed by a powerful fan that will tickle and dry your balls or honey-pot fanny. My magic lid to this depository will then reappear to rest your boners.

On each side of the bed will be one of those swinging trays like they use in dentists' offices, which you will use for brushing teeth, eating your breakfast and/or TV dinners, and as a reading stand/computer laptop office. Naturally you already have a remotely-operated TV/Stereo. Within reach will be your refrigerators for holding beer, which will be delivered by your local TV dinner/beer store, and your microwave oven.

Listen, there's a lot more to this. You probably have the gist, though: You never have to get out of bed. Beds and bidets are guaranteed. Cost is slightly higher for parties of three.

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My favorite word today is normal. Adj., how the world turns. Def.: Neighbors' description of the "regular guy" who is discovered to have killed 18 people.

Working Hard But Losing Ground

I wonder if they felt a positive jolt in the economic fortunes of Tennessee today at 6:15 a.m. when I took a slug of Jack Daniels. Taking a slug of Jack's at that time of day is called an eye opener, and I needed it to write my piece. It made me sleepy, though, so I took a nap instead. I had to dream up a topic, anyway.

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One of my buddies reminds me that I haven't told you lately about the old TV show, Hollywood Squares. These fine questions and answers are from the days when this game show's responses to the questions were spontaneous and riotonius, which means funnier than a riot. Peter Marshall was the emcee:

Pete: If you're going to make a parachute jump, at least how high should you be?
Charley Weaver: Three days of steady drinking should do it.

Pete: True or False: A pea can last as long as 5,000 years.
George Gobel: Boy, it sure seems that way sometimes.

Pete: You've been having trouble going to sleep. Are you probably a man or a woman?
Don Knotts: That's what's been keeping me awake.

Pete: According to Cosmopolitan, if you meet a stranger at a party and you think that he is attractive, is it okay to come out and ask him if he's married?
Rose Marie: No; wait until morning.

Pete: What are "Do it," "I can help," and "I can't get enough"?
George Gobel: I don't know, but it's coming from the next apartment.

Pete: Charley, you've decided to grow strawberries. Do you get any the first year?
Charley Weaver: Of course not. I'm too busy growing strawberries.

Pete: According to Ann Landers, is there anything wrong with getting into the habit of kissing a lot of people?
Charley Weaver: It got me out of the Army.

Pete: Jackie Gleason recently revealed that he firmly believes in them and has actually seen them on at least two occasions. What are they?
Charley Weaver: His feet.

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The other day, the people in the dining room fed us something called "Pasta Coronary." I guess they got people waiting for rooms.

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My favorite word today is pretend. Vb., on the cheap. Def.: You ask for samples at all the Farmer's Market booths on grounds you can't make up your mind, say "hmmmm," and walk out having had a free lunch.

All the Money Is in Groceries, Not Food

Most of you know that I will probably be dead in about a year or so, and you also know I can't afford it. See, I need to Make My Pile so something exotic can be done with my body. I am big on exotic, like lap dancing.

My current plan is to be shot in a time machine to some brave new world in the Andromeda Galaxy, if I cash in my chips in the summer. Otherwise I will go to the Southern Cross. But then when it gets to be summer up north I can move to Andromeda. I am a good candidate to be in favor of global warming. Warm is better than cold.

I think there is A Pile to be made selling groceries. You never want to be in a position of selling food. Food is what farmers sell, and they don't earn jack shit. Groceries is what Costco and Kroger and Safeway sell, and they make all the money -- and I want some of the action. So, get ready for:

Ol' Hoss's Fine Tomatoes and Firing Range. The word tomatoes implies, of course, that I will be selling lots of different stuff because everybody is confused about whether tomatoes is fruit or vegetable. So people will just assume that I also will be selling Wheaties and Smoked Trout.

The big money, of course, will be in cheese. I will have gorgonzola, camembert, liederkranz, those isoceles triangles of parmesan, brie -- no, wait, that's French. Screw the frogs; they peed all over our favorite war. So we'll have Edam instead. I think the Dutch might still like us. The big fun, though, will be in the Swiss Cheese Firing Range, where people will get to make their own holes in the cheese. I'll be providing beebee guns, for people who like a lot of little holes but don't want 'em done all at once; rifles for single-shot also, but that make bigger holes; and shotguns that can make various sized holes, because shot comes in various sizes. But they can do this quick and get on their way home for Happy Hour.

I will charge the same amount per pound of ammunition as for the cheese. But it will be worth it for people to get their own home-shot cheese, don't you think?

This idea might not make me wealthy right away, but I can always sell out to my buddy Bill Gates. He wants to own everything high-tech like this.

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My favorite word today is held. Vb., in the nick of time. Def.: A child examines what he left in the toilet that he needed to let go of 20 miles back and was told to "hold it."

All in the Timing

I am in the fireplace room of our Golden Oldies Home, when in comes Feelgood Haines. Feelgood is the guy who's our homegrown history buff, but today, he says, "I think you'd be interested in knowing some science stuff I been saving up"

Hoss: "No I wouldn't."

Feelgood: "You ain't interested in women?"

Hoss: "Well, yes, but..."

Feelgood: "This is about how you can remember gestation periods."

Hoss: "!!?"

Feelgood: "See, you use a memory crutch. Like, say, ROY G BIV gives you all the colors of the rainbow, from Red right down to Violet. Or that 'There's a rat in separate.' 'I before E except after C and a few other places.' So here's your memory aid about gestation periods:

"The elephant was saddled with two long years,
"When God was playing dirty tricks.
"The mouse got by with just three weeks,
"But woman was saddled with 36."

Hoss: "Why do I need to know this?"

Feelgood: "Elephants can live to be 80 years old because of that long gestatory period. Eighty-two if you count the way the Chinese do. Humans live to be a 100, but it's only because they get good medical care and we can force-feed 'em if we have to. Mice don't live long because they got a short gustatory and besides that they have to eat saccharine, butter, tobacco and shit like that."

Hoss: "But...?"

Feelgood: "What I ain't yet figured out is, When an elephant gets a cold, where does it get its chicken soup?"

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My favorite word today is secret. N., of initiations and such. Def.: What you promise to keep, but don't.

Olio, Miscellany, and Etc.

If you are new here, well, this is the kind of stuff you have to expect. Regular readers know they are going to be wigged out. (Click on picture to make bigger.)

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I have some bits and pieces to clean up. Awhile back I told you to go to Google, and type in your first name, followed by the word "needs," then read the descriptive material to find out what you need. Most of it you don't.

Angie told me to go to www.googlism.com to find a similar site. So I did. Here is some of what I got (using my real first name):

Lowell is aproximately 103. (Ok, I'll buy that.)
Lowell is even murkier. (Right on. Amazing.)

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My newest buddy, Ivy, had on her site what is, to me, a nifty paragraph:

"Today I was standing on the curb waiting for a bus. I looked down in the street and thought, 'Ah! There's a lucky penny.' Then it occurred to me....just how lucky can it be? It's been thrown down or dropped, deemed unworthy of someone's effort to reach down and pick it back up, obviously been run over by several cars....and now if it's really lucky, I'll pick it up and put it in my smelly shoe?"

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Special Prosecuting Attorney: "And is this little blue suit he was wearing at the time?"

Dubya: "Well, I guess so."

Or, Rove, doing his best imitation of Schulz on the old Stalag comedy show:

"I see nozzing...."

(Maybe this is unfair. George is doing the best he can. Which, of course, is the problem.)

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Answer: "Yes."

Question: By writers of political columns and b**gs: "Does this piece make my head look fat?"

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My favorite words today are taxi, coffee shop, airport, library. N., Oh, now I remember. Def.: Places you probably have left your laptop.

Halloweeen: Not Just for Kneebiters Anymore

No, sir. Us used-up people in The Home on the Range for the Aged get in on the Halloween business too. Maude Frickert said she found this picture on the Internet of her second ex-husband, and wanted to show it off. Georgia Smithers saw it and sent out for some orange and black makeup, since her window is right over the front entrance to this place.

We don't just bob for apples. Not all the time.

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My favorite word today is Spell-check. N., looks good to me. Def.: When you mistakenly type "death throws," this is the part of your computer that says, "Looks fine to me."

Now Saturday Gets Short Shrift, Too

I was lying in a snow bunker on a precipice high above a rock-strewn creek, penning with donned mittens my favorite word of the day. I felt movement below my gluteus maxima, and began crawling up the slope. The shoveled bunker in which I had been lying gave way, and tumbled a thousand feet below. I looked for my words, which would be frozen in time. There were no words, just rocks, snow, ice and boogers.

"I wonder," I said to no one, "if there's anything in Wikipedia."

(I did, indeed, have this dream. Boogers weren't in it, but they seem fitting because I am so flaky. Notice is given that BOTH Saturday and Sunday will become short shrift. Oh, not because of the dream; I can imagine anything, if I want. It's actually because I am needing more time to write and surf your stuff. I do not want to give up seeing what 100 or so of you have to say. So sue me.)

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My favorite word today, which will not be frozen in time, either, is disappears. Adj., you notice that? Def.: What happens to the new car smell when you drive out of the dealer's parking lot.

More Work on Bookworks

(Yesterday some of you clicked on B**g values in my piece to find that yours has a value of zero. That is probably incorrect. You may need to ask 2-3 times. I found, for instance, that Tan Lucy Pez got a value of zero, but on the third try I got a value of $31,049. So try, try again.)

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My pals Raehan and Born Fool have enlisted in National Novel Writing Month. All the participants will be trying to write a 50,000-word novel between Nov. 1 and Nov. 30. There are no prizes; a few of the books have actually been published. You can read about it and sign up here.

Now, I don't think I can do this, personally. But if I were going to do it, my title and first paragraph would be one of the following. I know they're all good, but let me know your favorite.

"Tales From the Shortbranch Saloon"

Clint Sidesaddle strolled into the Shortbranch Saloon, his face dripping wet. Lefty Noxious asked him, "It raining out there?" Clint replied, "No, I was drinkin' outta the horse trough. Say, you know if mosquito larva got any protein in 'em?" Other gunslingers in the bar go "Ewwwww!!" in unison, D-major flat. Clint, who had somehow morphed into Roy Orbison, began to sing, "Pretty woman, walkin' down the street, pretty woman..." He was staring straight at Julia Roberts, who was being approached by Leo Gorcey. Leo says to Julia, "Hi, honey, wanna shag?" Julia: "You're a little small," she said, shortly. "Nose to nose your toes would be in it; toes to toes your nose would be in it."

"Prince Hashberry of Twickenham Baronial Estate and Other Places"

"Mother, I don't think building a castle on the Great Plains was a good deal," Prince Hashberry said, plaintively. "Since you can see for miles, nobody can get close enough to attack so we could get written up like those guys at the Alamo or Almagordo, whatever." Mother, who lived in Chicago and and made her fortune in pork bellies, had gotten the little bastard to finally leave home by setting him up with a castle in Kansas. "Well, move," she said, movingly. Hashberry settled in the Texas Panhandle, and told his staff: "We're not in Kansas anymore." Hash later went mad as a hatter, but his staff had the makings of two motion pictures. Neither of them would be named "Tora, Tora, Tora."

"When We Were Dung"

Scarab was probably the best dung-roller that ever lived. Legions of dung beetles had come and gone, but Scarab was the finest. Scarab was getting old now, long in the fece and beetle-browed, as beetles are wont to do. Scarab often told his grandchildren, "I worked elephone dung, rabbit and deer pellets, cow plop, you name it. I would do anything to Make My Pile."

"Jesus Christ, the Early Years"

Synopsis: Little nothing (?) was known of most of Christ's early life until this book by Ol' Hoss the Housebroken. It has lately been discovered Christ spent his time working on white thread. He invented white sheets for Harey guys to wear in airports, white sheets for Arabian headwear, white sheets for Ku Klux Klan parades, and white sheets for ghosts to wear at Halloween. His brother James became Christ's marketing agent, and eventually got together enough loot to become a money-changer. They went broke when James underestimated the strength of the Japanese yen after World War II. Rated "R" for violence.

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My favorite word today is terror. N., the little brat. Def.: Student who makes you wonder why paddling wouldn't be better than Ritalin.

I'm in the Money -- If I Could Only Get It

Here's my first ad for McDonald's in my latest campaign to Make My Pile to finance my trip to Mars, where I will lie in suspended animation while awaiting the rest of you colonists.

Naturally, you will want to know why I am running ads. I was brought to this low state by something Pointmeister reminded me of. It's a site about B**g Values, which says the Old Horsetail Snake site is worth $126,456, and I want it. Apparently some bozo has a machine that calulates what everybody's site is worth, I assume for advertising purposes. You can click on that and find out your own site's value. It won't be much, knowing how lame your stuff is.

Its accuracy may be in question, though. When I checked a couple of months ago, my site was only worth $49,000, but now $126,000. It's questionable because the site owned by Michele Agnew, which gets over 800 hits on a three-day weekend is valued at $120,247. However, the famous "Dooce" has a site worth $3,116,260.

I been thinking about other advertising accounts I can get, based on stuff I have mentioned in my b**g:

--Bing Crosby Estate. I once had a piece where I talked about all the hate I can put on his song, "White Christmas." But, for money, I would be willing to put up an audio b**g where I will do the harmony to "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" while you sing "White Christmas."

--Budweiser. I probably can't make much offa this. Already Budweiser has 5 ads running every minute for all 6 or 7 billion people on earth. They may not need another one.

--Walmart. This outfit wants to compete with "Two-Buck Chuck Wines," and I anticipate a huge market boost for Wally World anytime I can mention "Grape Expectorations."

--The Holy Bible. Sales have slacked off in the Middle East. The Gideons have resorted to building motels in Iraq so they can have more bedside table drawers available for Bible placement. Surely Ol' Hoss can help here.

--Hearing Aids. Since I have invented a new hearing aid, which is an imitation ear fitted with implanted wires so's nobody knows you're wearing one, ads for this serve double duty. I am getting pretty sharp at the advertising game.

Okay, let's see what we got. Five accounts, 2 cents a day each, 30 hits a day = USD 3 per day = $90 (or so) a month. Diesel for my space engine costs $3.19 a gallon. All of a sudden, Mars looks pretty far away.

Maybe the columns I write here could churn out ads. Instead of writing about generic bananas, I could write about Chiquita Bananas, for instance. I love Jif Peanut Butter, which is a lot better than generic peanut butter. What do you think, Dear Reader? (Asking your readers a question is a guaranteed sure-fire hit getter.)

(Photo immediately above inspired by dddragon.)
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My favorite word today is Monday. N., a thrill a minute. Def.: An invention of a sadistic employer.

How to Become a Published Author

You've written something very imaginative, and you would like to get it published. What you do is send me...

No, wait. Send NOTHING except your manuscript -- or your previous rejection letters (more about that, below) -- to Lulu, and within two/three weeks you can say, "I are a published author."

Here is what one such author,
Lightning Bug's Butt, told me about the process:

"It's too good to be true. Publication is free! No catch. Just upload a file.

"Lulu prints on demand. They charge per book. You decide on the price....You never pay anything. If you sell a $12 book and it cost Lulu $8, you make 4 bucks. Lulu takes care of printing and shipping."

I know Bug's Butt has sold some copies of his book, "What's Shakin' in the Men's Room," because I bought one.

Another fella paid Lulu $90 bucks for 4 rolls of toilet paper. Printed on the paper are copies of some of the 17 rejections he has gotten for his sci-fi tome. "Take that, Ballantine Books, you buttwipes."

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Here is what I am thinking of sort of inventing to help Make My Pile, which I sore need to finance the eulogy I will buy off the Vatican Pope, Benedict, or the American Pope, Billy Graham. It is called Ol' Hoss's Bide-a-Wee Time Waster.

I make some shiny Bakelite hoops into the form of basketball baskets, and put one of them suck things on the end that you lick so it will stick to the wall. Then I make a dozen little balls, covered with your own family's official Scottish colors!

You may not be Scottish, but if you have enough money, you can get official plaid colors. The Scots are very good at diddling you out of your cash sorting out family colors. With your luck, yours are probably mustard and what can brown do for you, but, what the hell, they're official.

So, you pack this stuff up and shoot some buckets while you're busily not attending one of them boring seminars. And when some bozo asks, "Hey, Bubba, what you doing tonight?," you say, "I'm gonna play with my balls." Or: "I'm practicing shooting my balls over my shoulder."

When you get back to your room, you're still giggling while you write your check to Ol' Hoss.

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My favorite phrase today is gone native. Adj., the wild thing. Def.: Carefully hanging up the $45 Hawaiian shirt you bought on your Maui vacation and never wearing it again.

Get On the Bandwagon Time

I am sitting in the dining room of the Home for the Old Rock of Agers, staring down at my plate. I ask my pal, Malt Sharper, "Is this free-range rat?"

Malt: "No, that's squirrel. I shot a lot of those down in Texas."

Hoss: "No, what I mean is, Is it free-range rat, or rodent, which are the one and the same to me."

Malt: "Well, I never heard of no rat farms, so it probably is."

Hoss: "I have to know. I gotta watch my health, and if this ain't free-range rat, I ain't eatin' it. Let me tell you something, you being so much younger than me and probably don't know these things. You don't wanna eat no farmed nothing. Here's why:

"Chickens cooped up together get you the Avian Flu.
"Cattle cooped up together give you the Mad Cow disease.
"Buffalo cooped up get you the brucellosis.
"Venisons (deer?) get you the chronic wasting.
"Salmon in fish farms swim around all day in their own poo.

"Do you think that if your Momma swam around all day in poo you'd wanna breast feed? No, just as I thought."

Malt: "Is it really that bad?"

Hoss: "It's worse. I was in to WalMart the other day, and they said they probably won't be getting in any free-range bananas till 2007. I know whose fault it is, too, but I ain't gettin' into the blame game."

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My favorite phrase today is pushy broad. N., damn her soul. Def.: The person who came to the counter after you did but manages to get served first.

Beg? Borrow? STEAL!!

This has been swiped from
Marti. The nuns are all seated on bar stools with fake gams. They may make a habit of visiting this joint, until the monsignor finds out.

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Like me, some of you have been following the life and times of a brilliant writer, Follow That Star. He's the hairstylist seeking to move from the Texas heat to the Colorado cool. I don't inow why he is such a fine writer. As Rumsfeld says, there are known unknowns, and unknowns that we don't know we don't know. Anyway, here's a meme he invites us to tag ourselves with (proving that ending a sentence with a preposition makes perfect sense. To me.)

Fill in the blank:

Feeling ________ (no oats).

Listening to ________ (Grand Ol' Hee Haw).

Spent last night ________ (hitting all the lottery numbers).

Missing ________ (my lottery ticket).

Had breakfast of ________ (crow).

Thinking of ________ (improving my diet).

Would love to ________ (talk to you in person). (Awwwww...)

Planning to ________ (Make My Pile).

Working to ________ (Make My Pile without working).

Favorite time of day is ________ (Happy Hour).

Always wanted to play ________ (5-string banjo, with Raquel Welch on drums).

Dreaming of ________ (regular stools).

A dream comes true when ________ (after much exertion, the brown log drops).

Would like to French kiss ________ (Martha Stewart; hoo boy! "So," I would say, "how was that on a scale of one to ten, not counting that my tongue needs to be slightly more frilly?" And she would say, "They do much better in the women's prison.")

Really hate ________ (those little balls of chocolate wrapped so tightly in foil that by the time you get them open all you have left is chocolate under your fingernails).

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My favorite word today is extinct. N., the dog did it. Def.: What you make happen by cleaning up the dog poop from the carpet.

I Am Barely Here on Sunday, You See

(Click on picture to make bigger.)

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Calvin has lots of favorite words. My favorite word today is pain. N., derived from Tabasco. Def.: The giving of which is the only class required of dental hygienists.

You Know What the Scientists Say

The other day, here in beautiful Salem, Oregon, we had competing political parades. One was for Gay Pride, and the other was supporting George W. Bush. You know what a liberal I am, so I got right in there and participated.

I joined a bunch of sign carriers on one side of the street. Here's what my sign said:





A guy next to me said, "You fool. That's just what they want!"

Here's what his sign said:





So I'm on the wrong side of the street. Big deal.

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Three souls show up at the Pearly Gates. St. Peter says, "For the purpose of checking our tithing records, what was your annual salary?"

First soul says, "$200,000. I was a trial lawyer."
Second soul says, "$80,000. I was a realtor."
Third soul says, "$12,000. I was..."

St. Peter: "I know, I know. But what did you teach?"

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I know you got plenty of people on your b**groll, but please do me and yourself a favor and visit a new b**gger, Susan Ivy, but don't stand too close. Ivy is making a career out of goofing up: Falling downstairs in a restaurant; pulling a bra out of her purse at the grocery store and watching it flutter to the floor; wearing her shoes too loose and watching one precede her by half a block; peeing in her wet suit -- just before the instructor says, "Don't pee in your wet suit." This is what is known as a real person a Goober. Go see.

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My favorite word today is matey. N., walted Matilda. Def.: A word you use at your office for three days after your Australian vacation only to discover that everyone thinks you are an embarrassment.

A Stranger in Paradox

Sure you remember. That old joke about the pig?

A city guy visits a farmer and sees a pig with two front legs ambling about on a scooter, because his back legs were gone. The citified says, "What's this?"

The farmer says, "One time we had a fire, and that pig came in a woke us up. Saved our lives. You wouldn't wanna kill a good pig like that all at once."

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Susie says you go to Google, type in your name, followed by the word "needs" -- as, in my case, Gene needs. The descriptive material will yield you some nuggets, such as:

"Gene needs to be modified."
"Gene needs to be turned off."
"Gene needs to be inserted."
"Gene needs to take his brain out of his ass and look in the mirror."

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I think our Homeland Security colors need some updating, just because. What have we got, Yellow, Orange, Red? How about:

Yellow stripe: Time to chicken out.
Black and White stripe: We have strong convictions this time.
Mustard: Potential for gas in the subway system.
Purple: We are about to be royally hosed.

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My favorite word today is puzzler. Adj., thinking deep. Def.: Wondering whether the just-married Hollywood dream couple knows a position you don't.

Salmagundi*

I been thinkin' about what I want said at my funereal, you know where they do that elegy or euthenasia thing. I have been boning up on how George W. Bush says things, because he is the master at Engrish, and here is what I come up with so far.

"Going forward is in retrospect, because we are committed to the here and now, as well as yesterday." --Ol' Hoss, Salem, OR Old Folks' Home, 10/20/2005.

"History will be -- can be -- our judgment of it." --Ol' Hoss, Salem, OR Dumpee in Senior Citizen Place, 10/20/2005.

"There is a place for everyone -- immigrants, and people coming here from other countries, too -- and once everybody is in place this problem will commensurate our know-how if -- not impossible but easy -- we resolute it." --Ol' Hoss, Salem OR Old and in the Way Home, 10/20/2005.

Boy howdy, it is going to be hard to pick just one of these for the ethnic at my wake, which will be held at the Temple of the Rise and Shine.

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I am beginning to think fondly of global warming. Look on the bright side of hurricanes: 5 years, easy, of full employment for carpenters, roofers and stone masons.

Even better -- and you'll want to get in on this -- is pristine beach property and nudist colonies in the Arctic.

Time shares in Santa-land!

Hoss: "Where you spending the summer, Bubba?"

Bubba: "The heat in Newfoundland is terrible, anymore. Maude and I probably will be trailering up to the North Pole."

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My new buddy, Ivy, says her child opines that every time a fly lands somewhere it vomits. So Ivy wonders if the proverbial fly on the wall "is covertly listening to private conversations in the room, or just simply waiting for the queasiness to pass."

I am glad to know that Ol' Hoss does not have to do all the deep thinking.

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My favorite word today is embarrassment. Vb., who knew? Def.: The announcement by a sibling at your Mom's funeral that she liked you best, which you knew but pretended you didn't.

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* "2. A miscellaneous collection or mixture." --OED.

When Enza Took Over From Feelgood

(Some stories are better than others.)

I am stealing again. But it's for your own good. My buddy Miss Zoot sort of hid this story on her site. It is SO GOOD you need to know about it.

In 1998, Zoot's Mom had a roommate named Enza. They were both fanatic University of Tennessee football fans. Unexpectedly, Enza died right before a crucial Tennessee-Florida football game. Late in the game, with UT's season on the line, the Florida field goal kicker missed a chip shot that would have won the game for Florida.

Zoot's Mom screamed at her daughter: "Enza noogied the kicker! Enza noogied the kicker!!"

The University of Tennessee went on to claim the 1998 National Championship. Miss Zoot's conclusion: "If there is a God, He definitely put Enza in charge of NCAA football that year."

To me, Enza's "noogie" is a lot better than "the Shot Heard 'Round the World."

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By the by, Miss Zoot is 8 28/31 months "with child." Watch for the coming of the baby to be known as NikkiZ.

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The other day, Bonnie, the lady who graduated from the Michigan State University Ant Farm, wondered if Feelgood Haines might know how Geronimo got his name. Feelgood is the guy here in the Old Sinners' Home what knows all the history stuff.

Hoss: "Feelgood, you happen to know how Geronimo got his name?"

Feelgood: "Well, you got to think logical about it, Hoss."

Hoss: "Can't just spit it out, can you?"

Feelgood: "See, when they invented parachutes they needed to yell something on the way down that would tell them when to pull the ripcord, so they wouldn't be too early or too late. What they came up with at first was 'Don't go splat.'"

Hoss: "Splat?"

Feelgood: "Yeah. See, a lot of the parashooters was gettin' their riggin' caught on the rudder, and that was no good because when the plane landed these jumpers would go splat. So then somebody came up with supercalifragilisticexpealidocious. But that took a long time to say, and a lot of guys pulled the ripcord too late, and went splat."

Hoss: "Splat again, huh?"

Feelgood: "Yes. Then W.C. Fields, a noted drinker, came up with 'Jereboam,' and that proved to be just right. So ever after, when a guy jumped out of a plane with a parachute, he would yell 'Jereboam' before opening his 'chute."

Hoss: "I asked about Geronimo."

Feelgood: "Nah, that was some guy in Bill Cody's Wild West Show. What did you want to know about him?"

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My favorite word today is naturally. Adj., why me? Def.: When the airline pilot announces a scenic view is available, your seat is on the other side.

A Revolting Development

My good buddy kenju (Judy) suggested sharing this with therapy-type persons. I think it's good enough to share with all. I'm right, right?

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In Oregon, if you don't like the government, you can take it over, by fair means or foul. Here's part of Article I:

"...and they (the people) have at all times a right to alter, reform, or abolish the government in such manner as they may think proper."

Now then, since we also got a law that allows anybody to carry a concealed weapon, this is going to be pretty easy. But first, I gotta call my buddy, Ted Kulongoski, who happens to be Governor:

Hoss: "Ted, things ain't going all that well, so what's it going to take for me to become King of Oregon? I mean, how are the people gonna know when I have taken over?"

Gov. Ted: "I will get some lawyers right on that, Hoss."

Hoss: "!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Fucked!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I actually think I know what to do. They ain't got any guards at our Public Television station. I'll get out my shoe bomb, take over the station, and announce my Emperorship, based on my campaign slogan of "The first thing we do is kill all the lawyers."

I hope this goes over well. There's a provision someplace that says if your effort to take over don't suceed, they can lay the capital punishment on you. And I don't know if I could handle that. I remember crying the last time I cut my tongue licking envelopes.

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My favorite phrase today is when home schooling goes bad. Adj., updating the children's bookshelf. Def.: Telling your child the train is a choo-choo, a sound the locomotives haven't made for over 50 years.

Titles Are the Hard Part

Since I am able to write one title for my piece every day, the Moguls Down in Hollywood think they can use me. See, they are running out of things to call their Class A motion pictures. For instance, here are some working titles they told me about that they're not sure they want to use:

"Dr. Chicago"
"Just Slightly Out of Africa"
"Pittsburgh Story"
"Finding Michael Jackson's Ranch"
"Million Dollar Baby Dolls and Bustiers"
"Being Julia Child"
"The Passion of the Monte Cristo"

I fired off a singing telegram, just like us moguls did in the good old days:

WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? STOP. OMAR SHARIF WOULD NEVER MAKE A MOVIE IN CHICAGO. STOP. ZANZIBAR MOVIES ARE PASSE'. AIR POLLUTION IS SO BAD IN PITTSBURGH YOU WOULD ONLY BE ABLE TO FILM FOR 6 MINUTES A DAY. EVERYBODY KNOWS WHERE MICHAEL'S RANCH IS (SAN FRANCISCO?) AND SO ON AND SO FORTH. STOP. WILL C.Y.A. FOR $5,000 PER TITLE. STOP. END OF MESSAGE. -- HOSS

Here's what I came up with for 2006. You might wanna play along.

"The Three Moogs." This is about synthesizing eye pokes and the history of "nyaaah," with voiceovers by my buddy Dave Morris.

"May the Bird of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose." With the success of National Geographic's "Penguin" thingie, this low-budget documentary has boffo written all over it. Promotional stills by my pal Deb (Sugar-fused).

"The Most Kinky Characters I Have Ever Met." A $100-million blockbuster from Reader's Digest Studios about how physical therapists iron out muscular twitches and kinks. Starring my therapist chum Tisha.

"Keys to the Kingdom" (a remake). An historical romance about chastity belts. Theories and strategies by my new-found acquaintance The Pointmeister.

"War and Cease." George Dubya Bush's Canadian War exit strategy. Written from the Anne Frank Memorial Bunker in Carcross, Yukon Territory, by my longtime friend, Average Mom.

Because people can't resist good titles, these will be the five finalists for "Picture of the Year." (Insider's tip: Bet all your dough on the reprise of Bob Hope's most famous flick, renamed "Captain Antlerblower.")

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Sunday Is When I Go on Vacation

This is an oldie but goodie from when the ladies were protesting the White Bastion known as The Masters Golf Club. The guy in the back had it right, right?

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My buddy AJ Tulsa was telling about a neighbor's statement that HER neighbors had a religion. But she had to tell her children "it was the wrong religion," involving burkhas and stuff.

This got Ol' Hoss to thinking. Do blacks see Big Ernie as black? Do Hispanics see Him as, maybe, Zapata? The Eskimos KNOW He is Inuit, and to the Indians He looks like Geronimo, you think?

Do I have to do all the deep thinking?

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My favorite word today is resolute. Vb., vital preparations. Def.: Spiffying up the house to impress the cleaning lady.

'Go Fast,' He Said Rapidly

Somebody suggested a couple days ago I should write a book. I don't know. Writing books is hard work, and you don't get to be old by doing all the hard work. I'd much rather have a job like you got, involving a lot of sitting, with high pay and no stress, frequent bonuses accompanied by diminishing responsibility, and no requirement to produce anything useful except the sandwich from your lunch box.

The trouble with writing a book is filling a lot of pages with adjectives and adverbs, gerunds maybe, and an occasional split infinitive to keep your readers on the alert. What I'm saying is, you got to produce maybe 35,000-300,000 words in all kinds of different arrangements. Everybody knows this is impossible, so nobody writes books anymore.

I actually DID write a book once. It went like this:

The Book of the Too Soon Dead

"Max, new in town, came to the intersection of 'That Way' and 'This Way.' He looked at the sign that said 'That Way,' and wondered: 'Should I go this way?'

"But then he looked at the sign that said 'This Way.' He wondered: 'Should I go that way?'

"Max was not a decisive individual, which proved to be his Achilles heel and toe. You see, there was no orange juice stand at the corner of 'That Way' and 'This Way.' So it was that Max died of scurvy.

"Soon enough, people got tired of stepping over his body, and so he was eventually put into The Hell-Fire Dairy Queen and Crematory and his ashes were scattered at the corner of Starbuck's and WalMart."

~The End~

(You see the problem right away, don't you? No, no, the problem ain't that it's just a one-page book. One-page books are jut as eligible for the Pulitzer Prize as the 1200-page Guide to Peyote Buttons. No, the problem is that the book ends before I can get around to telling you Max's last name, which, once I got into a writing frenzy, I forgot. When you're getting paid by the word, it's always smart to put in a guy's last name. That's another dime, right there.)

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You remember Swifties? Named for Tom Swift, whose adverbs of attribution always matched the character's comment:

"I'm gaining weight," he said ponderously.
"We will need some herbs if we are to cook this turkey," he said sagely.
"That gentleman has only one arm," he said off-handedly.

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In the same vein (heh, watch out):

"A big fella like you shouldn't be afraid of a little hypodermic," the doctor said. I think he was needling me.

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My favorite word today is shift. Vb., with evil intent. Def.: A subtle movement in bed by which you ensure that it is he who lies on the wet spot.

They Shoot Holes in Cheese, Don't They?

My campaign to rid the world Internet of ass crack is not going well, as you can see. However, there is a ray of sunshine. I might be able to make some money off this.

It seems quite a few of my readers also would like to cold-cock the butt-crackers. So here's the deal: You send me all the crack pictures you find and I will put 'em in cold storage on my computer, where they will never be seen again, as I do not know how to retrieve stuff once it's on my machine. I will probably have to buy a new computer every three or four weeks to have enough storage, but, what the hell, nothing is too good for my readers if they are willing to pay me enough. I'll take any form of payment except Nigerian bank notes.

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You know how it is some days when you have more answers than there are questions? As I was dozing in my recliner awhile ago, some answers came to me, so naturally I had to make up questions, because I hate it when I have all the answers and you don't. So here's how this worked:

Q. How many network news anchors are men over 40?

A. All of them.

Q. How many network news anchors are women over 40?

A. None.

Q. How many of the local weather forecasters have big boobs?

A. In stations where general managers keep a eye on "the bottom line," the answer is "All of them."

(Do you ever have deep thoughts like I do? No, I didn't think so.)

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Oregon is the only state where assisted suicide is legal. The guy who wants to take himself out because of boredom or pain is given a big slug of barbituates. This is know locally as "a killer app."

We actually are very proud of this distinction. We quit being beaver skin merchants a long time ago.

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My favorite word today is demur. Adj., in recovery mode. Def.: When the third Wise Man takes back his gift to Christ.

Are You Like Me? You Have a Horny Car?

If they are selling Christmas lights, it must be fruitcake season. Which is when the deer start losing their antlers. And so, of course, this got me to thinking about my car horn.

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I have one of those cars that have an automatic locking device, triggered by a button on this monstrous key. When I push "lock," the lock buttons go down, and the horn goes "beep."

I am getting worried about this. How many "beeps" does one car horn have in it? After awhile, does the horn fall out, like it does off a deer? And if the horn falls out, how do I show my disdain for the Little Old Lady who walks so slowly on the "Walk" light that I miss the green? It is really hard to set off a good case of road rage if you don't have a horn.

Volkswagen will be hearing from me.

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My world-class buddy, Lois Lane, had a piece a couple days ago about childhood use of the "F-bomb." It was a very funny story told on her sister, Angie, who takes all of Lois's ribbing in vastly good humor. It reminded me of my brother-in-law, Cliff, not because he is funny per se, but because he is hard of hearing.

He, his wife, my wife and I are driving down the main (only) street in Virginia City, Nevada. In front of us is a big ol' red pickup with this tatooed fella at the wheel with his honey chile practically in his lap. One of them hippie guys starts ambling across the street, takin' his ol' sweet time.

Mr. Tatoo honks at him, and blurts out, "You F-er!" Mr. Hippy throws up "The Finger." Mr. Tatoo throws on the emergency brake, right in the middle of the street and chases Mr. Hippie into a nearby bar.

My brother-in-law says, "That is strange, they seem to know each other."

I say, "What makes you think that?"

Cliff says, "He called him Tucker."

So now you know how to lay the F-bomb on somebody without cursing: "You Tucker!"

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My pal Unga Chunga went to a fund-raiser art auction the other night, and there were only seven bidders. She said she got some great stuff on the cheap.

I asked her in the comments section, "What if they threw a fund-raiser and nobody came?"

She emailed me: "Fund-downer?" Hoo boy, she is sharp.

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My favorite word today is pinto. N., of vegetables, equines and steel. Def.: A word meaning beans, horses and cars, invented to confuse people who are taking English as a second language.

Mr. Irrelevant Meets Mr. Irreverent

You are SO lucky you found this site. My name is Mr. Surfs-a-lot, because I ... well, you know, like, and so on. I calculate there are about 12 million b**gs. About 1/3 of these are politics, about 4/3 are porn, sixth/ninths are how to learn HTML, and 1/10 of 1 percent are Daddy blogs, so I don't read any of those. The other 100 I DO read, and I glean nuggets for you.

Which is short for: Look at all the stuff I stole.

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By now, most of you know I am irrelevant. Irregardless (yes, I know that), I also am irreverent, so of course I am going to Hell. See, in Gal. 6:7 it says, "Be not deceived; God is not mocked. Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap." This means: If you tickle a funny bone, you can get some laughs.

So, over in Political Humor this guy is musing about what George Dubya said: "In the eyes of God, marriage is based between a man and a woman." This guy says he needs some advice about other elements of Big Ernie's laws:

"I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states that he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?"

"I know from reading Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?"

These questions are all in good humor. Mr. Surfs-a-lot is never offensive.

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My new buddy Peter down in Australia has some homemade emoticons that are really neat. Here are just a few:

(_!_)............A regular ass
(__!__).......A fat ass
(!)................A tight ass
(_e=mc2_)...A smart ass

You can see them all by clicking on the good old link, I think.

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Australians have all the fun. From my pal Ozguru:

"Paper clips are the larval stage of coat hangers." -- Mad Elaine.

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I take that back. There also is fun in the USA. Quotes from a research paper passed along by Kira are riotonious (a word meaning funnier than a riot). I dare you to read this piece and keep a straight face. For instance: "A more logical expiation for the light is what is called Ignis Fatuous, or fatal fire."

In the comments on this piece, you find a comment by Innanna telling of her student's report on Jason and the Gold Fleas.

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My favorite word today is artiste. N., it's all about the turnover. Def.: The sure-handed guy at the supermarket whose job is to make sure the bad side of the fruit and vegetables is underneath.