Just Another Book Blogger

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

CHAPTER 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marybeth: "I have lived a long time."

Down the 'Jeopardy' Tubes; Plus: Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm on Jeopardy; Plus: Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 2

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

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

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

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


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

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

Saving Social Security, Writing a Book

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

Invest in the urn business for future economic security.

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

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

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

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

Zeph: "You sure about this?"

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

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


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

CHAPTER ONE

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

Old People Get Hacked

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

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

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

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

Oh, the Things We Hear

The Old Home on the Range:

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

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

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

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

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

No we don't.

We Call in the Law-Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Restaurant Review

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some of Us Never Get the Word

Well shit! Piss, crap, thunder and tarnation!

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

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

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

But, hey. Anybody? Did the Nagurskis win?

Almost Time for the Big Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm in Fat City

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

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

Here are some other things I imagine have been happening:

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

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

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

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

Let's Operate

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

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

Hoss: "Prostate?"

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

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

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

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

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

Hoss drops drawers.

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

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

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

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

Meet Lester

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

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

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

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

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

I can't think of anything to write today.

The (Really High) Cost of Living

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bill Gates does not want to live here.

Slowpokes and Speed Demons

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

Some of my favorites:

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

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

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

What we need around here are some good funerals.

Strange But True

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

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

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

+ + + + + + + +

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ + + + + + + +

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

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

"Is that kinky, or what?"

I'm Starving Here

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

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

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

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

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

(I rip out a kneecap.)

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

(I apply a scissors hold.)

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

(I get her in a half-nelson.)

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

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

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

I'm as Sharp as TWO Tacks!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oldster's Version of a Mommy Blog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

6-8 p.m. -- Nap.

8 p.m. -- Go to bed.

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

Keeping Active

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

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

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

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

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

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