And on the 12th day after staring death in the eyebones, it came Easter and Ol' Hoss ressurected hisself.*
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It has been awhile since I wrote anything, as my 102,000 fans well know. Well, I'm feelin' good in The Old Folks' Home in which I dwell, and am here forever to slake your demand to read about my sly and cunning ways.
When I got back from the hospital, some people here thought I oughta join the war on the tobacco companies for causing me to nearly go toes up with lung disease. "Get in on the dough, Hoss, before they all go bust," Merle Hertz said.
I ain't got no interest in suing the terbaccy merchants. Sure, they guilty of lots of things, and the numbnuts deserve some punishing. But why would I want my (former) fellow smokers to give me money for what I did to myself? And that's all it is, dough coming from all smokers to finance the sick smokers. What a daisy chain.
Big Tobacco bridled but they did what they was told. They put right on their packages about an eon ago: "This shit ain't good for you, Bubba. You might lose that tongue you're wagging." "Unadulterated poison, Aunt Martha. Swear off, now."
I remember an old song that had lyrics including these lines:
"Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette,
"Smoke, smoke until you smoke youself to death.
"Tell St. Peter at the Golden Gate
"That you hate to make him wait,
"But you just gotta have another cigarette."
That song was on the Hit Chart long before "Hazardous to Your Health" arrived. So I had fair warning, and I taking my medicine (they got some good doo-doo in the hospital).
But maybe I CAN make some money out of this. You know me, always thinking about making my pile. Big Tobacco can hold me up as their Poster Child: "Here, look at this sick sonofabitch. He's the onliest man in the world who don't want to sue us."
I might get the Marlboro Man in the background, giving the old Ebert two thumbs up.
I figure I ought to get 100 USD for each poster they put out.
Wonder if I can work Joe Camel into the poster? Make it ecumenical.
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Living in an Old Folks' Home like I do makes it easy to do some heavy thinking. It's nice and quiet, mostly. And the result of this heavy thinking is that you'll soon be seeing headlines like this:
New York Times: "Senior Citizen Scores Dramatic Financial Success"
Forbes Magazine: "Ten Tips on How Ol' Hoss Came to Riches"
Variety: "Yid Kid Bids for Fame" (I didn't know I was Jewish, but that's okay. Some of my best friends aren't Jewish. Some of them aren't Arabs, either.)
Gizoogle: "Old Playa Retirizzle $$"
Time Magazine: "Old Horsetail Snake Is Man of Year"
These will be coming because of the immensely successful business plan I have developed In Order to Make My Pile. Now, I can't tell you about this right now, maybe at the end of the week. I got some other schemes going that will keep you busy in the meantime unnerstandin' my recent thought of train.
I WILL be charging these publications for writin' their headlines for 'em.
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* I missed out on Palm Sunday. Carolina Sister says that's the day we revere palm readers. Damn, I thought it was the day we was allowed to choke our lizard with either hand.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Warning: Nobody Home
Yesterday I wrote that since I'm sick I wouldn't be posting anymore. But I am going to leave the site up in case I someday can resume. After today, don't look for anything new here.
One last tale of yore:
When I was a kid (58 years ago) I worked on a road crew with a bunch of guys from Bulgaria or Romania or Vampire State University. Their language sounded kind of neat so I asked them to teach me some of it. So Ravil says he would teach me one phrase, and one phrase only. He says (this is phonetic): "Eide ostetsa ohna ogranac."
Horse: "What's it mean, oh wise one?"
Ravil: "It means 'Go get me some water.' That's all rookies need to know."
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Okay, that's it. I'm worn out from all that sinning.
But I want to tell you one last thing I've learned about some people in The Old Folks' Home:
I don't have much patience with people who don't have any patience.
One last tale of yore:
When I was a kid (58 years ago) I worked on a road crew with a bunch of guys from Bulgaria or Romania or Vampire State University. Their language sounded kind of neat so I asked them to teach me some of it. So Ravil says he would teach me one phrase, and one phrase only. He says (this is phonetic): "Eide ostetsa ohna ogranac."
Horse: "What's it mean, oh wise one?"
Ravil: "It means 'Go get me some water.' That's all rookies need to know."
+ + + + + + + +
Okay, that's it. I'm worn out from all that sinning.
But I want to tell you one last thing I've learned about some people in The Old Folks' Home:
I don't have much patience with people who don't have any patience.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Hoss Bitches, Then Bows
I'm back in the Old Folks' Home where I sent myself to die. I'm beginning to get the hang of it.
Spent 3 days in the hospital with Brain Dead Disease. You get that when they tell you to quit smoking, and you don't. So now I've had lung disease, heart attack, prostate cancer, ruptured appendix. I'm probably due for hangnail.
I wish I could get one of them Hollywood diseases. Lou Gerhig's, paralysis, alcoholism, idiot savant -- all good movies. Maybe a slow motion tour of the colon?
I'd sure like to make a pile before I pass.
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I want you to know that during my stay in the lungery I didn't once appeal to Big Ernie for help. I suppose there's room for a God in the world; has to be, since there's so many of 'em -- like, Lord, Allah, Ra, Yaweh, Homey.
And He/She did a pretty good job on some stuff, like the Ten Commandments. Coulda been more, I suppose, like "Don't mess with Texas." But I think Moses hisself chiseled out those do's and don'ts. See, he was a scrawny little guy and didn't think the followers would take to commandments from a wimp. So he made up this God fig newton.
One of the commandments says there oughta be no killing. As you know, that was a loser right from the start. In Ireland, Protestants and Catholics killing each other In.The.Name.Of.Religion. Mideast, Arabs killing In.The.Name.Of.Religion. Nothing new there.
What kind of career choice is "suicide bomber?" "Well, Bob, you don't have to work much." They ought to get 'em an Ebola franchise for all the good they're doing.
HOWEVER, there just might be a God thing, so I'm willing to play along in hopes of finally making my pile. What I'm proposing to God is to develop his "Ignore List." I would tell him the kinds of people whose prayers He can safely ignore. This would be people like The Newly Rejected Lover, The Guy Who's Going to Die Tomorrow Anyway, Greedy Old Bastards Who Don't Tithe -- you get the picture. Then God would get a lot of time off to work on his nine-iron.
I wouldn't ask for much. Maybe a couple of streets paved with gold.
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This is Ol' Hoss's swan song as a blogger, sad to say. I'm too sick to continue, but not in immediate danger of having to cash in my gold streets. I'm going to continue to read your stuff, so you might be hearing from me.
You who have been reading the sometimes-true stories of Hoss have been very kind. Thank you.
Spent 3 days in the hospital with Brain Dead Disease. You get that when they tell you to quit smoking, and you don't. So now I've had lung disease, heart attack, prostate cancer, ruptured appendix. I'm probably due for hangnail.
I wish I could get one of them Hollywood diseases. Lou Gerhig's, paralysis, alcoholism, idiot savant -- all good movies. Maybe a slow motion tour of the colon?
I'd sure like to make a pile before I pass.
+ + + + + + + +
I want you to know that during my stay in the lungery I didn't once appeal to Big Ernie for help. I suppose there's room for a God in the world; has to be, since there's so many of 'em -- like, Lord, Allah, Ra, Yaweh, Homey.
And He/She did a pretty good job on some stuff, like the Ten Commandments. Coulda been more, I suppose, like "Don't mess with Texas." But I think Moses hisself chiseled out those do's and don'ts. See, he was a scrawny little guy and didn't think the followers would take to commandments from a wimp. So he made up this God fig newton.
One of the commandments says there oughta be no killing. As you know, that was a loser right from the start. In Ireland, Protestants and Catholics killing each other In.The.Name.Of.Religion. Mideast, Arabs killing In.The.Name.Of.Religion. Nothing new there.
What kind of career choice is "suicide bomber?" "Well, Bob, you don't have to work much." They ought to get 'em an Ebola franchise for all the good they're doing.
HOWEVER, there just might be a God thing, so I'm willing to play along in hopes of finally making my pile. What I'm proposing to God is to develop his "Ignore List." I would tell him the kinds of people whose prayers He can safely ignore. This would be people like The Newly Rejected Lover, The Guy Who's Going to Die Tomorrow Anyway, Greedy Old Bastards Who Don't Tithe -- you get the picture. Then God would get a lot of time off to work on his nine-iron.
I wouldn't ask for much. Maybe a couple of streets paved with gold.
+ + + + + + +
This is Ol' Hoss's swan song as a blogger, sad to say. I'm too sick to continue, but not in immediate danger of having to cash in my gold streets. I'm going to continue to read your stuff, so you might be hearing from me.
You who have been reading the sometimes-true stories of Hoss have been very kind. Thank you.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Sunday, March 13, 2005
A Sad Excuse for a Family Tree
Each Sunday a different minister comes to our Old Folks' Home to conduct a little service. We've had 'em all -- Presbyterians, Catholics, Jews, Rastafarians, Buddhists, Ba'hai, Holy Rollers, Latter Day Saints, Hare Krishnas. Once we had the Dalai Lama, and the next week Joseph Smith dropped in. When Pope Paul gets well, he'll no doubt schedule us in. Talk about your ecumenical.
Today we had us one of those world champion proselytizers, a Creationist Evangelista, name of Hobart Sternclamp. This was perfect for one of our residents, Ben Idoubtit. Ben wanted to talk about the Bible, the King Jimmy Version. He said he had some questions and observations about some parts of the Bible that come shortly after "In the beginning..":
Hobart: "Let us pray."
Ben: "You think prayer is going to do us any good? It's almost certain that all the people here are crazy."
Hobart: "Why do you say that?"
Ben: "Well, according to you the population started to thicken up when Adam and Eve had those boys. But then Cain offed Abel, and that left just three people to populate the world. Only way it could been done is there was some incest along the way, and that just leads to birthing a bunch of retards. Pretty damn lean start to a family tree, you ask me."
Hobart, musing: "I can see your point. But it was all taken care of when God started over with the Noah and the Ark gig. You know, all the people but Noah's family sucked gas."
Ben: "Yes, but that's just what I'm talking about. See, we know Noah incested; just about had to if we was going to have any knee-biters around to populate the planet. And we know Noah was whacko from all the previous incest. That's why he loaded up his boat with crap like mosquitoes, black widow spiders and cobras."
Ben: "Did you know, Rev, what it says in the encyclopeedee about this? It says, '...the non-viable offspring that result from incest...gets worse with each generation.' So I feel sorry for you."
Hobart: "You feel sorry for me?"
Ben: "You're one generation younger than me. I'm whacky, sure, but you're going to turn into a real lugnut."
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When I was in high school I participated in track and field. My event was called, then, the "broad jump." (No, I don't know why; just go with it.) Sometime in about the 1950s it was changed to "long jump," which I grant is more descriptive.
Didn't matter. Wilt Chamberlain and Kobe Bryant and I just kept jumping broads.
Today we had us one of those world champion proselytizers, a Creationist Evangelista, name of Hobart Sternclamp. This was perfect for one of our residents, Ben Idoubtit. Ben wanted to talk about the Bible, the King Jimmy Version. He said he had some questions and observations about some parts of the Bible that come shortly after "In the beginning..":
Hobart: "Let us pray."
Ben: "You think prayer is going to do us any good? It's almost certain that all the people here are crazy."
Hobart: "Why do you say that?"
Ben: "Well, according to you the population started to thicken up when Adam and Eve had those boys. But then Cain offed Abel, and that left just three people to populate the world. Only way it could been done is there was some incest along the way, and that just leads to birthing a bunch of retards. Pretty damn lean start to a family tree, you ask me."
Hobart, musing: "I can see your point. But it was all taken care of when God started over with the Noah and the Ark gig. You know, all the people but Noah's family sucked gas."
Ben: "Yes, but that's just what I'm talking about. See, we know Noah incested; just about had to if we was going to have any knee-biters around to populate the planet. And we know Noah was whacko from all the previous incest. That's why he loaded up his boat with crap like mosquitoes, black widow spiders and cobras."
Ben: "Did you know, Rev, what it says in the encyclopeedee about this? It says, '...the non-viable offspring that result from incest...gets worse with each generation.' So I feel sorry for you."
Hobart: "You feel sorry for me?"
Ben: "You're one generation younger than me. I'm whacky, sure, but you're going to turn into a real lugnut."
+ + + + + + + +
When I was in high school I participated in track and field. My event was called, then, the "broad jump." (No, I don't know why; just go with it.) Sometime in about the 1950s it was changed to "long jump," which I grant is more descriptive.
Didn't matter. Wilt Chamberlain and Kobe Bryant and I just kept jumping broads.
Friday, March 11, 2005
The Escapist & the Fisher Folk
Delicia Ratfinc escaped from The Old Folks' Home today. Delicia is about 66 1/2 yrs. old, nice looking. Wears 4-inch heels. As it was later reconstructed, she walked down the hill, obliviously crossed four lanes of traffic and waltzed into the pizza shop.
She asks for, and gets, one slice of pizza. $2.25, says the counterman. "I don't have any money," Delicia says. "I've got nothing to spend money on, so I don't carry any."
Counterman gives her the pizza, free, about the time a winded caregiver catches up with her and leads her back to The Home.
This, of course, is not the first time Delicia has escaped. She has made it to the grocery store (where they frowned on giving her a 12-pack of Bud and some Junior Mints for free); to the tire store (which also would not Annie Oakley her a tire); and to the drug store (where she was unable to get a free sample of morphine).
Once Delicia walked into the cleaners, whipped off her dress and asked whether it would be ready in a day or two. "I'll wait," she said.
I would say that Delicia is a candidate for the funny farm, except we don't say "funny farm" anymore, as that is disrespectful. So I guess it's off to the nuthouse for Delicia.
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Sixty-one years ago this coming Sunday, my cousin John asked if I wanted to go fishing in the irrigation canal. This is a canal that carries water from the Descutes River near Bend down about 40 miles to Madras. I don't know what they do with the water when it gets there; flood Madras with it, I guess. It's a pretty crappy town. Then when all you can see of Madras is a couple of church steeples they turn off the water for the year, and that's when it's the right time to go fishing in the canal.
So John and I took collected our tackle. Mine was a .30-.30 rifle and his was a 16-gauge shotgun. See what happpens is that when they turn off the water, some of it remains in little potholes. And in some of these potholes you will see rainbow trout living out their days.
We would fire into the potholes hoping to stun the fish, make 'em rise to the top of the water and we'd scoop 'em out. Unfortunately for me, my rifle didn't provide adequate concussive power. But John caught a fish with every shot. He must have gotten 8 or 10 12-14-inch rainbows and browns.
When we got back to his place later, his Mom wouldn't give me any of the fish. I hope they was loaded with mercury.
She asks for, and gets, one slice of pizza. $2.25, says the counterman. "I don't have any money," Delicia says. "I've got nothing to spend money on, so I don't carry any."
Counterman gives her the pizza, free, about the time a winded caregiver catches up with her and leads her back to The Home.
This, of course, is not the first time Delicia has escaped. She has made it to the grocery store (where they frowned on giving her a 12-pack of Bud and some Junior Mints for free); to the tire store (which also would not Annie Oakley her a tire); and to the drug store (where she was unable to get a free sample of morphine).
Once Delicia walked into the cleaners, whipped off her dress and asked whether it would be ready in a day or two. "I'll wait," she said.
I would say that Delicia is a candidate for the funny farm, except we don't say "funny farm" anymore, as that is disrespectful. So I guess it's off to the nuthouse for Delicia.
+ + + + + + + +
Sixty-one years ago this coming Sunday, my cousin John asked if I wanted to go fishing in the irrigation canal. This is a canal that carries water from the Descutes River near Bend down about 40 miles to Madras. I don't know what they do with the water when it gets there; flood Madras with it, I guess. It's a pretty crappy town. Then when all you can see of Madras is a couple of church steeples they turn off the water for the year, and that's when it's the right time to go fishing in the canal.
So John and I took collected our tackle. Mine was a .30-.30 rifle and his was a 16-gauge shotgun. See what happpens is that when they turn off the water, some of it remains in little potholes. And in some of these potholes you will see rainbow trout living out their days.
We would fire into the potholes hoping to stun the fish, make 'em rise to the top of the water and we'd scoop 'em out. Unfortunately for me, my rifle didn't provide adequate concussive power. But John caught a fish with every shot. He must have gotten 8 or 10 12-14-inch rainbows and browns.
When we got back to his place later, his Mom wouldn't give me any of the fish. I hope they was loaded with mercury.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
In Praise of Hoss
Just because us old people in the Old People's Home are old, doesn't mean we just bought a turnip truck. Nosiree, a lot of us are quick in the head (an old Navy term). I mention this so's you'll know about an improvement I've made in the World of Blog.
Lately a lot of people have been pushing their blogger friends to answer a "meme," which I think is short for "Me, Me!". What they do is ask their blogger buddies a series of questions about themselves, so we can find out if they're nutcases or just wet noodles. And then the lady that asked all these questions never comes back to read the answers. Here are examples of the kinds of questions the "me-me-ers" ask:
"What attracted you to your mate other than the prospect of getting laid?"
"Do you give your children oddly-spelled names like 'Plane Jane' and 'Humpdiddel'?"
"Why are you sitting there typing when you should be looking for work?"
Well, here's my improvement, which I call the "anti-meme." Instead of asking questions about you, I give you a chance to ask questions about ME. Here are the questions and assignments:
"Why am I so brilliant?"
"How do you prevent yourself from wanting to cuddle me?"
"List not less than 100 of my best qualities." (Most people get up to 200 before they run out of steam.)
If you have time, write an essay describing 200-400 of my other good qualities. Neatness counts.
I don't know why someone else didn't think of inventing the "anti-meme." It seems like I have to do everything.
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Merle Hertz is standing in the hallway today while Myrna Wisenheimer moves in. She is carrying one bed pillow, and behind her is a mover carrying a twin bed.
Merle says to Myrna: "I bet you're single."
Myrna: "Why, yes. How did you know?"
Merle: "You're ugly."
+ + + + + + + +
Fred Boor and I are sitting in the Fireside Room reminiscing about our childhoods. One thing that came up was having to memorize a whole shitload of nursery rhymes. This was about 65 years ago, but we still got most of them down pat:
Horse: "Jack and Jill went up the hill; it's okay Jill's on the pill."
Fred: "Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep and doesn't know where to find them." Well of course you don't know where they are, you twat. They're lost!
Horse: "Hickory, dickory, dock." Our teacher said that "dock" is what they do to male sheep when somebody orders Rocky Mountain oysters.
Fred: "Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a cow pie."
Horse: "Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? In cannabis and coca plants, all right in a row."
Lately a lot of people have been pushing their blogger friends to answer a "meme," which I think is short for "Me, Me!". What they do is ask their blogger buddies a series of questions about themselves, so we can find out if they're nutcases or just wet noodles. And then the lady that asked all these questions never comes back to read the answers. Here are examples of the kinds of questions the "me-me-ers" ask:
"What attracted you to your mate other than the prospect of getting laid?"
"Do you give your children oddly-spelled names like 'Plane Jane' and 'Humpdiddel'?"
"Why are you sitting there typing when you should be looking for work?"
Well, here's my improvement, which I call the "anti-meme." Instead of asking questions about you, I give you a chance to ask questions about ME. Here are the questions and assignments:
"Why am I so brilliant?"
"How do you prevent yourself from wanting to cuddle me?"
"List not less than 100 of my best qualities." (Most people get up to 200 before they run out of steam.)
If you have time, write an essay describing 200-400 of my other good qualities. Neatness counts.
I don't know why someone else didn't think of inventing the "anti-meme." It seems like I have to do everything.
+ + + + + + + +
Merle Hertz is standing in the hallway today while Myrna Wisenheimer moves in. She is carrying one bed pillow, and behind her is a mover carrying a twin bed.
Merle says to Myrna: "I bet you're single."
Myrna: "Why, yes. How did you know?"
Merle: "You're ugly."
+ + + + + + + +
Fred Boor and I are sitting in the Fireside Room reminiscing about our childhoods. One thing that came up was having to memorize a whole shitload of nursery rhymes. This was about 65 years ago, but we still got most of them down pat:
Horse: "Jack and Jill went up the hill; it's okay Jill's on the pill."
Fred: "Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep and doesn't know where to find them." Well of course you don't know where they are, you twat. They're lost!
Horse: "Hickory, dickory, dock." Our teacher said that "dock" is what they do to male sheep when somebody orders Rocky Mountain oysters.
Fred: "Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a cow pie."
Horse: "Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? In cannabis and coca plants, all right in a row."
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Another Day in the Life
Some people here in The Old Folks' Home are starting to take me into their confidence. I think they figure that since they have bored everybody else here to tears I will write up their stories on the internet, and then they can take a whack at boring you. Glad to help.
Carolina Sister told me she and her daughter, Tilde, had a discussion about "my Last Will and Temperamental." She said, "I got a statute in there that says I'm going to take all my money with me. But Tilde said I would really be uncomfortable in a casket stuffed with hundred-dollar bills; I'd just have no elbow room. So Tilde said to give her all the money and when I go to my Last Reward she would toss in a big check so I could get me some hats, Depends and manicures in the Great Beyond.
"Don't you just love a daughter who would look after her Mom's comfort like that?
"And did you know they have manicures in Heaven?"
I said, "Sure. And they got dementia here in Hell."
+ + + + + + + +
Yesterday it was beautiful here in Oregon. Seventy degrees, low humidity. Six kids playing in a street full of hydrant water got run down by trucks, and my neighbor Georgina Teatsuckle gave me something to chew. All in all, a pretty good day.
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I have a new friend who lives up in one of the Twin Cities. I don't remember which one; Beirut, I think. His name is Chris Cope. I got a link to him down there in the lower left. He said he Googled me and found out I used to be Oregon public utility commissioner, and that I should own up to it.
Well, it's true. I regulated the rates and service terms of the electric, telephone and gas utilities, the intrastate trucking companies, and private water companies. It was a big job, and I could only play golf Monday, Wednesday and Thursday.
One time a lawyer called me and said the telephone company was trying to cut off his service for nonpayment, and he wanted me to stop 'em.
I said, "Well, you're a lawyer. You must be making piles. Why don't you pay?"
He said, "Oh, I don't charge my clients. You think I should take money from people just to give it to the phone company? What kind of guy do you think I am?"
Carolina Sister told me she and her daughter, Tilde, had a discussion about "my Last Will and Temperamental." She said, "I got a statute in there that says I'm going to take all my money with me. But Tilde said I would really be uncomfortable in a casket stuffed with hundred-dollar bills; I'd just have no elbow room. So Tilde said to give her all the money and when I go to my Last Reward she would toss in a big check so I could get me some hats, Depends and manicures in the Great Beyond.
"Don't you just love a daughter who would look after her Mom's comfort like that?
"And did you know they have manicures in Heaven?"
I said, "Sure. And they got dementia here in Hell."
+ + + + + + + +
Yesterday it was beautiful here in Oregon. Seventy degrees, low humidity. Six kids playing in a street full of hydrant water got run down by trucks, and my neighbor Georgina Teatsuckle gave me something to chew. All in all, a pretty good day.
+ + + + + + + +
I have a new friend who lives up in one of the Twin Cities. I don't remember which one; Beirut, I think. His name is Chris Cope. I got a link to him down there in the lower left. He said he Googled me and found out I used to be Oregon public utility commissioner, and that I should own up to it.
Well, it's true. I regulated the rates and service terms of the electric, telephone and gas utilities, the intrastate trucking companies, and private water companies. It was a big job, and I could only play golf Monday, Wednesday and Thursday.
One time a lawyer called me and said the telephone company was trying to cut off his service for nonpayment, and he wanted me to stop 'em.
I said, "Well, you're a lawyer. You must be making piles. Why don't you pay?"
He said, "Oh, I don't charge my clients. You think I should take money from people just to give it to the phone company? What kind of guy do you think I am?"
Monday, March 07, 2005
Pot Pourri
Uh, oh:
To: Old Horsetail Snake
From: MSN
Dear Mr. Snake: Your use of scatalogical terms and assorted other filthy words has gotten entirely out of hand. Therefore, you will suffer the following penalties: 1) You will not receive a beejer in your Christmas stocking; and 2) Your membership in MSN has been terminated and transferred to the Little Old Lady From Pasadena. Have a nice day, asshole.
I guess I will have to give up on MSN Search. I hear there are a couple of other search engines I can use. I think their names are Gargle and Yodel.
+ + + + + + + +
There is this lady, Phat Happenstance, in The Old Folks' Home who is driving me crazy. She's in a wheelchair, see, so when she's done in the dining room she needs one of the waitresses to push her back to her apartment. And because she thinks the sun rises and sets on her scrawny ass, she wants this done NOW:
Phat: "Help" (in tremolo).
Mr. Snake: "Phat, when the waitresses are done serving everybody, they will come get you."
Phat: "Okay." (One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three...15 seconds, maximum, pass by:)
Phat: "HELP me" (vibrato).
Waitress: "We'll be with you as soon as everyone has been served."
Phat: "Okay." (One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three...10 seconds later:)
Phat: "HELP ME! (basso profundo)
So today I shot her right between the eyes. Well, I didn't, but I coulda. Shoulda. Woulda.
Will.
+ + + + + + + +
Some people think I'm evil. But it's only because I got such good business sense. Here's what I mean:
Today at lunch I said to Nelly Nervous: "If you were the administrator here, would you populate this place with more people like you, or more people like me?"
I ask you, how does a person answer a question like that without either bragging or hurting my feelings? Can't be done, so Nelly conjured up a heart attack and died.
I tried this on two other residents later, and they likewise expired. Everybody takes the easy way out.
Anyway, by this time I have cost The Home $7,200 a month in income. So the administrator says to me, "If you'll stop that, you can live here rent-free."
See what I mean about having a good head for business? Hoo boy.
To: Old Horsetail Snake
From: MSN
Dear Mr. Snake: Your use of scatalogical terms and assorted other filthy words has gotten entirely out of hand. Therefore, you will suffer the following penalties: 1) You will not receive a beejer in your Christmas stocking; and 2) Your membership in MSN has been terminated and transferred to the Little Old Lady From Pasadena. Have a nice day, asshole.
I guess I will have to give up on MSN Search. I hear there are a couple of other search engines I can use. I think their names are Gargle and Yodel.
+ + + + + + + +
There is this lady, Phat Happenstance, in The Old Folks' Home who is driving me crazy. She's in a wheelchair, see, so when she's done in the dining room she needs one of the waitresses to push her back to her apartment. And because she thinks the sun rises and sets on her scrawny ass, she wants this done NOW:
Phat: "Help" (in tremolo).
Mr. Snake: "Phat, when the waitresses are done serving everybody, they will come get you."
Phat: "Okay." (One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three...15 seconds, maximum, pass by:)
Phat: "HELP me" (vibrato).
Waitress: "We'll be with you as soon as everyone has been served."
Phat: "Okay." (One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three...10 seconds later:)
Phat: "HELP ME! (basso profundo)
So today I shot her right between the eyes. Well, I didn't, but I coulda. Shoulda. Woulda.
Will.
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Some people think I'm evil. But it's only because I got such good business sense. Here's what I mean:
Today at lunch I said to Nelly Nervous: "If you were the administrator here, would you populate this place with more people like you, or more people like me?"
I ask you, how does a person answer a question like that without either bragging or hurting my feelings? Can't be done, so Nelly conjured up a heart attack and died.
I tried this on two other residents later, and they likewise expired. Everybody takes the easy way out.
Anyway, by this time I have cost The Home $7,200 a month in income. So the administrator says to me, "If you'll stop that, you can live here rent-free."
See what I mean about having a good head for business? Hoo boy.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
The Old Guy Drops In; Lessons in Scat
I am sitting out near the reception desk in our Old Folks' Home when The Old Guy makes an appearance. He has a two-wheeled luggage carrier to which are attached his khaki blanket, Boy Scout kit, and extra sock. He rotates his socks, like tires.
The Old Guy is what some of you would call "homeless." I don't buy it. A home is where you hang your hat, and if you can hang your hat on one of the girders under the Center Street Bridge, where Old Guy usually dwells, then he's got a home. Simple as that. Damn liberals.
He pops out from under the bridge occasionally when he gets cold. So he's cold, and he approaches our receptionist, who today happens to be Dim Big Guy.
Old Guy: "Can I stay here tonight?"
Dim Guy: "Nope. Not this time, not last time, not no any time."
Old Guy: "I'll give you a blow job if you let me stay."
Since The Old Guy is toothless, this appeals to Dim Guy. He grabs the company manual to get advice.
"Beejer (Giving)"
Wrong page.
"Beejer (Getting)" -- "Beejers may be accepted only during meal periods, and may not be witnessed by more than two (2) residents."
Dim Guy: "Sorry, oldtimer, it's a long time til breakfast. I'll have the cops come get you again."
Old Guy: "Nah, don't do that. I'll just steal a car downstairs and drive myself to the slammer. I'll tell 'em you sent me."
Dim Guy: "Well, thanks, a little word of mouth advertising doesn't hurt. But stealing a car is a bad idea. Take my rig. I'd hate to have you arrested before you go to jail."
+ + + + + + + +
I've got this girl friend up in Canada. (Although she didn't know she's my girl friend until just this minute.) She touted me on an internet site at the University of Finland where some enterprising soul has taken the time to list all the known synonyms for a lot of common words such as fellatio, cunnulingus, male genitalia, brothel and breasts.
Book writers everywhere are indebted to this site. No romance novelist worth his/her salt could sell a book with words like testicle, semen and and fornication. No, it's got to be "love nuts," "oil of man" and "hide the bone." Consider this sentence, which is most likely going to be in the latest opus by Danielle Steelbottom:
"Boris, in the shitter to dump a meatloaf, grabbed his blood-engorged sausage, spanked the monkey and dropped his load, while thinking of the roundheels he met last night."
I tell you, that sings.
+ + + + + + + +
P.S. This site is X-rated. This should not be read by anyone under 6 years old.
The Old Guy is what some of you would call "homeless." I don't buy it. A home is where you hang your hat, and if you can hang your hat on one of the girders under the Center Street Bridge, where Old Guy usually dwells, then he's got a home. Simple as that. Damn liberals.
He pops out from under the bridge occasionally when he gets cold. So he's cold, and he approaches our receptionist, who today happens to be Dim Big Guy.
Old Guy: "Can I stay here tonight?"
Dim Guy: "Nope. Not this time, not last time, not no any time."
Old Guy: "I'll give you a blow job if you let me stay."
Since The Old Guy is toothless, this appeals to Dim Guy. He grabs the company manual to get advice.
"Beejer (Giving)"
Wrong page.
"Beejer (Getting)" -- "Beejers may be accepted only during meal periods, and may not be witnessed by more than two (2) residents."
Dim Guy: "Sorry, oldtimer, it's a long time til breakfast. I'll have the cops come get you again."
Old Guy: "Nah, don't do that. I'll just steal a car downstairs and drive myself to the slammer. I'll tell 'em you sent me."
Dim Guy: "Well, thanks, a little word of mouth advertising doesn't hurt. But stealing a car is a bad idea. Take my rig. I'd hate to have you arrested before you go to jail."
+ + + + + + + +
I've got this girl friend up in Canada. (Although she didn't know she's my girl friend until just this minute.) She touted me on an internet site at the University of Finland where some enterprising soul has taken the time to list all the known synonyms for a lot of common words such as fellatio, cunnulingus, male genitalia, brothel and breasts.
Book writers everywhere are indebted to this site. No romance novelist worth his/her salt could sell a book with words like testicle, semen and and fornication. No, it's got to be "love nuts," "oil of man" and "hide the bone." Consider this sentence, which is most likely going to be in the latest opus by Danielle Steelbottom:
"Boris, in the shitter to dump a meatloaf, grabbed his blood-engorged sausage, spanked the monkey and dropped his load, while thinking of the roundheels he met last night."
I tell you, that sings.
+ + + + + + + +
P.S. This site is X-rated. This should not be read by anyone under 6 years old.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Shafted Again, I Fight Back
Just because I live in an Old Folks' Home is maybe why everybody thinks they can rip me off. I can just hear those scammers out there: "Let's go mug some old people. They're all suckers for Nigerians."
The latest hatchet job on me is that my famous book, "Long Gone With the Wind and Rain," has been swiped RIGHT OFF THE INTERNET! And this is even after I had the copywilburwright and the screenorvillewright in my safe deposit box. And I had a patent from the Library of Congers on my idea for making artificial legs (nobody had ever thought of this before; that's why Long John Silver walked with a limp).
The theft was by -- you guessed it -- some goddamn Chinaman. I am no longer listed as the author; they claim my book was written by some fink named Confucious Say.
Those Chinks have no respect for Fair Trade and Garage Sales. They'll steal anything. My buddy Bill Gates was saying just the other day, "Proprietary theft by the Chinese has cost me over a billion dollars, and I've got a family to feed." (I hear he's been over in London looking for crumbs off-a Queen Elizabeth's table, he's that hungry.)
You know, this is strange. Back in World War II the Japs were "the yellow peril" and the Chinese were our buds. Now the situation is reversed. Personally, I think if somebody is going to be a yellow peril they ought to stick with it and not go yin yanging back and forth. I don't know how the Chinese get away with it. Everybody knows Armani is not a Chinese name.
Anyway, I haven't given upon on my dream of getting rich by writing a book. And this time I have the perfect solution to protect my work from the Chinese, as well as the Norwegians and Lapps and anybody else that covets fine writing. You'll see how this works right away. Here is the opening of My New Book:
"Linda >uyvgtaull@iprolinc.ch> sighed >RWXQNZdkgmb.pachyhouse.net< as Randy >href=30"hHp//conduit< slipped >a6.halbers6848pilusjps< her >ebolton_bt@klincowde> a boner."
You can see right away what I'm doing here. You can get the gist of the story just by reading the obvious words. But I am leaving out all the adjectives and adverbs, and you'll only be able to get them by buying my code. See, I won't be selling novels so much as I'll be selling code-breaking machines left over from World War II. No middlemen: no printing houses, no Amazons. Just me and my internet customers. I don't think I'll let anybody invest in this; it's just too good a thing to share.
This, my friends, is the book-writing wave of the future. Eat your heart out, Grisham.
In case you are thinking about buying the book code, I'm taking reservations. It's titled "Linda Lovelace Goes Deep." It's a sports story.
The latest hatchet job on me is that my famous book, "Long Gone With the Wind and Rain," has been swiped RIGHT OFF THE INTERNET! And this is even after I had the copywilburwright and the screenorvillewright in my safe deposit box. And I had a patent from the Library of Congers on my idea for making artificial legs (nobody had ever thought of this before; that's why Long John Silver walked with a limp).
The theft was by -- you guessed it -- some goddamn Chinaman. I am no longer listed as the author; they claim my book was written by some fink named Confucious Say.
Those Chinks have no respect for Fair Trade and Garage Sales. They'll steal anything. My buddy Bill Gates was saying just the other day, "Proprietary theft by the Chinese has cost me over a billion dollars, and I've got a family to feed." (I hear he's been over in London looking for crumbs off-a Queen Elizabeth's table, he's that hungry.)
You know, this is strange. Back in World War II the Japs were "the yellow peril" and the Chinese were our buds. Now the situation is reversed. Personally, I think if somebody is going to be a yellow peril they ought to stick with it and not go yin yanging back and forth. I don't know how the Chinese get away with it. Everybody knows Armani is not a Chinese name.
Anyway, I haven't given upon on my dream of getting rich by writing a book. And this time I have the perfect solution to protect my work from the Chinese, as well as the Norwegians and Lapps and anybody else that covets fine writing. You'll see how this works right away. Here is the opening of My New Book:
"Linda >uyvgtaull@iprolinc.ch> sighed >RWXQNZdkgmb.pachyhouse.net< as Randy >href=30"hHp//conduit< slipped >a6.halbers6848pilusjps< her >ebolton_bt@klincowde> a boner."
You can see right away what I'm doing here. You can get the gist of the story just by reading the obvious words. But I am leaving out all the adjectives and adverbs, and you'll only be able to get them by buying my code. See, I won't be selling novels so much as I'll be selling code-breaking machines left over from World War II. No middlemen: no printing houses, no Amazons. Just me and my internet customers. I don't think I'll let anybody invest in this; it's just too good a thing to share.
This, my friends, is the book-writing wave of the future. Eat your heart out, Grisham.
In case you are thinking about buying the book code, I'm taking reservations. It's titled "Linda Lovelace Goes Deep." It's a sports story.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
I'm Busy (Well, the Genius Is)
I do not have much of no anything today from the Anciency. I have signed up a Computer Genius who is making me a new template and, even more important, putting in links from my weblog to some of my favorite authors, such as Mariposa, Autumnville and the Demented one. It won't be done for awhile but negotiations weren't built in a day, you know, so that's why I'm lazing about.
I will have an entry tomorrow, featuring My New Book. In the meantime, read yesterday's column. You might have missed a nuance or two (as if I knew what "nuance" means).
+ + + + + + + +
Why don't flies have abortions? There are too damn many of 'em.
I will have an entry tomorrow, featuring My New Book. In the meantime, read yesterday's column. You might have missed a nuance or two (as if I knew what "nuance" means).
+ + + + + + + +
Why don't flies have abortions? There are too damn many of 'em.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
To Hell With Me
I was born back when dinosaurs ruled the earth but our ancestors, named sperm, were getting off to a pretty good start. Now I am embedded with Old People in an Assisted Living Facility where denture cleanser is a girl's best friend. Life was good in the Old Days, when you could get spermed but not spammed.
Some of the fun I had was listening to my Granddad preach. He was a Missionary Baptist hell-fire-damnation spieler who frequently predicted that Armageddon was right around the corner. (He later cancelled my membership in the church for going to high school dances, so I don't know whether or not I was to be Armageddoned.) He said if we didn't Mend Our Ways we would be going straight to Hell, which was some underground place so vile as to be beyond description. So here is how I think it was described:
Satan was Chief Executive Officer, a forefather of Bernie Ebbers. He ruled in a place where coal fires burned night and day (until the EPA got on his ass for polluting the air and he had to switch to natural gas). You would get 40 lashes a day (20 for each eye), whether you needed them or not. Satan also was Chief Financial Officer, because he knew a lot of people would try to Take It With Them when they died and he had all sorts of scams to separate people from their money.
With men, Satan would squeeze their balls so hard their nuts would pop up into their colons and give them gas. Satan made a pile this way, as he had the Gas-X concession. With women, he would downsize their boobies to an A Cup, which of course is the biggest shame a woman can suffer. Satan lost money on his Victoria's Secret franchise.
Satan also was known as Lucifer because he learned identify theft from a rogue computer nerd. His Social Security number was 666. Satan also is an anagram of "Santa," which meant he could give lots of lumps of coal for Christmas because he had so much anthracite on his hands after switching to natural gas.
Anyway, that's how my Granddad described Hell. I think.
But I'm not buying it. I think Hell is RIGHT HERE in my Assisted Living Facility. Let's see, we've got Alzheimer's, Lou Gehrig's disease, arthritic rheumatism, pneumonia, hernias, anxiety attacks, epilepsy, diabetes, palsy, broken hips, athlete's foot and every kind of cancer known to man (and woman). We're toothless, deaf, dumb, blind and broke.
And besides that, Toshiba hasn't sent my rebate.
Welcome to Hell.
Some of the fun I had was listening to my Granddad preach. He was a Missionary Baptist hell-fire-damnation spieler who frequently predicted that Armageddon was right around the corner. (He later cancelled my membership in the church for going to high school dances, so I don't know whether or not I was to be Armageddoned.) He said if we didn't Mend Our Ways we would be going straight to Hell, which was some underground place so vile as to be beyond description. So here is how I think it was described:
Satan was Chief Executive Officer, a forefather of Bernie Ebbers. He ruled in a place where coal fires burned night and day (until the EPA got on his ass for polluting the air and he had to switch to natural gas). You would get 40 lashes a day (20 for each eye), whether you needed them or not. Satan also was Chief Financial Officer, because he knew a lot of people would try to Take It With Them when they died and he had all sorts of scams to separate people from their money.
With men, Satan would squeeze their balls so hard their nuts would pop up into their colons and give them gas. Satan made a pile this way, as he had the Gas-X concession. With women, he would downsize their boobies to an A Cup, which of course is the biggest shame a woman can suffer. Satan lost money on his Victoria's Secret franchise.
Satan also was known as Lucifer because he learned identify theft from a rogue computer nerd. His Social Security number was 666. Satan also is an anagram of "Santa," which meant he could give lots of lumps of coal for Christmas because he had so much anthracite on his hands after switching to natural gas.
Anyway, that's how my Granddad described Hell. I think.
But I'm not buying it. I think Hell is RIGHT HERE in my Assisted Living Facility. Let's see, we've got Alzheimer's, Lou Gehrig's disease, arthritic rheumatism, pneumonia, hernias, anxiety attacks, epilepsy, diabetes, palsy, broken hips, athlete's foot and every kind of cancer known to man (and woman). We're toothless, deaf, dumb, blind and broke.
And besides that, Toshiba hasn't sent my rebate.
Welcome to Hell.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Foiled Again and Foul of Mouth
Us Old People keep getting the shaft. My Original Screenplay, "Long Gone With the Wind and Rain" (see somewhere below) did not win an Oscar last night. From what I understand, it only got 33% of the vote. I think what happened was that my Synopsisosity to Chapter 5 was so good that it was entered as a separate nominee, and it drew off 21% of the vote.
My movie had big stars like Vivian Sleigh, Clark Kent Goble, Thomas Mitchell, Billy the Kid and Godzilla. It had big fires (if you count having all of South America going up in flames as big). And we volunteered to cut the legs off Demi Moore, playing the part of Vivian, to maintain historical accuracy.
I think it woulda been a shoe-in for Best Picture.
+ + + + + + + +
Merle Hertz came out of the closet today, to the delight of all of us at the Old Folks' Home. But it took him 15 minutes to find the door.
+ + + + + + + +
I think the reason everybody here thinks I'm rotten is because I am. But that's because all my life I've been surrounded by smutty language -- dirty, suggestive stuff. It just wore me down. Here's what I mean:
--City DUMP
--LOAD of clothes
--SHITike Creek, Oregon
--WHOREhouse Meadows, Oregon
--Don HO
--Squaw TIT, former name of Mt. Washington, Oregon
--INTERCOURSE, Pa.
--Oregon State BEAVERs
--Cecil HEAD, Salem, Or.
--JACK KANOFF, Redmond, Or.
--Church SEXton
--SCREWloose
--SHAG rug
--Shotgun shell WADding
--LAY's potato chips
--SUCKer
--"Thar She BLOWs"
--FUCKminster Fuller (oh, well)
+ + + + + + + +
My next-door neighbor, Jillian Comeagain, imparted the secret to a long life: "Wake up every morning."
+ + + + + + + +
On the internet I found a new game for the sports program we're developing for Fox TV (see yesterday's entry). It's called: "Alphabeticize the M&M's." This will be hard for some of us, so we'll allocate a 5-minute slot.
My movie had big stars like Vivian Sleigh, Clark Kent Goble, Thomas Mitchell, Billy the Kid and Godzilla. It had big fires (if you count having all of South America going up in flames as big). And we volunteered to cut the legs off Demi Moore, playing the part of Vivian, to maintain historical accuracy.
I think it woulda been a shoe-in for Best Picture.
+ + + + + + + +
Merle Hertz came out of the closet today, to the delight of all of us at the Old Folks' Home. But it took him 15 minutes to find the door.
+ + + + + + + +
I think the reason everybody here thinks I'm rotten is because I am. But that's because all my life I've been surrounded by smutty language -- dirty, suggestive stuff. It just wore me down. Here's what I mean:
--City DUMP
--LOAD of clothes
--SHITike Creek, Oregon
--WHOREhouse Meadows, Oregon
--Don HO
--Squaw TIT, former name of Mt. Washington, Oregon
--INTERCOURSE, Pa.
--Oregon State BEAVERs
--Cecil HEAD, Salem, Or.
--JACK KANOFF, Redmond, Or.
--Church SEXton
--SCREWloose
--SHAG rug
--Shotgun shell WADding
--LAY's potato chips
--SUCKer
--"Thar She BLOWs"
--FUCKminster Fuller (oh, well)
+ + + + + + + +
My next-door neighbor, Jillian Comeagain, imparted the secret to a long life: "Wake up every morning."
+ + + + + + + +
On the internet I found a new game for the sports program we're developing for Fox TV (see yesterday's entry). It's called: "Alphabeticize the M&M's." This will be hard for some of us, so we'll allocate a 5-minute slot.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Attention Dementia Disorder
My name is Old Horsetail Snake,
And I'm ready to go on the take:
If I start labeling these paeans to Old People in the Old People's Home as "sermons," would you be inclined to put something in my collection plate? I didn't think so. Heathen.
+ + + + + + + +
I always thought that Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD, don't subtract) was something that only red-faced hypers known as snot-nosed kneebiters were fortunate enough to get. (I say "fortunate" because not knowing what's going on is probably better than living in the real world.)
But, no. ADD punches out Old People too. As I was on my usual hall patrol today, here are somethings I overheard:
Nervous Nellie: "Is this the room where I get my enema?"
Nurse: "This is for influenza vaccination."
Nellie: "Then I'm in the right place. I need my flue irrigated."
Paul Certain: "Anybody want to play a game of pool?"
Hulda Hearsay: "Not today, thanks."
Paul: "I had a truck like that once."
Maude Frickert: "What's for lunch?"
Cook: "Chili and cornbread, with cottage cheese."
Maude: "A new broom sweeps clean, I always say."
+ + + + + + + +
My cousin John called today: "Hello, you old bastard. Did you know you are now 74 and 155/365ths years old? I'm going to outlive you, you prick." (I didn't know he knew my middle name.)
John is 74 and 152/365ths years old, which makes him three days younger than me. And I have to say I guess he's right. My Mom and Dad are (were) older than me, and they died. George Washington is (was) older than me, and he died. So it looks like the older you are the better chance you have of going on to your reward, which is named Hell.
This might not be right. For instance that wonderful writer named Hunter Thompson just died, and he was only 69 or something like that, instead of 74 and 155/365ths, like me. I don't know; he might have had some help.
And I'm ready to go on the take:
If I start labeling these paeans to Old People in the Old People's Home as "sermons," would you be inclined to put something in my collection plate? I didn't think so. Heathen.
+ + + + + + + +
I always thought that Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD, don't subtract) was something that only red-faced hypers known as snot-nosed kneebiters were fortunate enough to get. (I say "fortunate" because not knowing what's going on is probably better than living in the real world.)
But, no. ADD punches out Old People too. As I was on my usual hall patrol today, here are somethings I overheard:
Nervous Nellie: "Is this the room where I get my enema?"
Nurse: "This is for influenza vaccination."
Nellie: "Then I'm in the right place. I need my flue irrigated."
Paul Certain: "Anybody want to play a game of pool?"
Hulda Hearsay: "Not today, thanks."
Paul: "I had a truck like that once."
Maude Frickert: "What's for lunch?"
Cook: "Chili and cornbread, with cottage cheese."
Maude: "A new broom sweeps clean, I always say."
+ + + + + + + +
My cousin John called today: "Hello, you old bastard. Did you know you are now 74 and 155/365ths years old? I'm going to outlive you, you prick." (I didn't know he knew my middle name.)
John is 74 and 152/365ths years old, which makes him three days younger than me. And I have to say I guess he's right. My Mom and Dad are (were) older than me, and they died. George Washington is (was) older than me, and he died. So it looks like the older you are the better chance you have of going on to your reward, which is named Hell.
This might not be right. For instance that wonderful writer named Hunter Thompson just died, and he was only 69 or something like that, instead of 74 and 155/365ths, like me. I don't know; he might have had some help.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Look for Me on TV
Welcome, again, to the Land of Rheumatism and Dementia.
I may be jumping the gun here, but I couldn't wait to tell you that I and several other of the Old Folks' Home inmates will soon be on television. Yep, Fox TV is here today filming a series of half-hour sports programs. The neat thing is that we oldsters got to pick which sports would be filmed. Here are our projected programs:
--"Speed thumb-twiddling"
--"Wheelchair Races Sing this Song, Doodah"
--"Exercises in Listening"
--"Game Boy Dominoes"
--"Mumbler Interpretations"
--"Pain Comparisons"
--"Counting Backward From One"
--"Dueling Corset Stays"
--"Timed Nod-off Competition"
I expect that Fox will pick up the option for a couple of years of this. It's tentatively titled "American Idle."
+ + + + + + + +
Just because I'm old doesn't mean I understand anything.
I may be jumping the gun here, but I couldn't wait to tell you that I and several other of the Old Folks' Home inmates will soon be on television. Yep, Fox TV is here today filming a series of half-hour sports programs. The neat thing is that we oldsters got to pick which sports would be filmed. Here are our projected programs:
--"Speed thumb-twiddling"
--"Wheelchair Races Sing this Song, Doodah"
--"Exercises in Listening"
--"Game Boy Dominoes"
--"Mumbler Interpretations"
--"Pain Comparisons"
--"Counting Backward From One"
--"Dueling Corset Stays"
--"Timed Nod-off Competition"
I expect that Fox will pick up the option for a couple of years of this. It's tentatively titled "American Idle."
+ + + + + + + +
Just because I'm old doesn't mean I understand anything.
Friday, February 25, 2005
I'm Exercised
This rumination comes to you from an Assisted Living Facility, commonly known as an Old Folks' Home. This is just short of a Nursing Home, where decrepit people are even decreptier. I DID offer to nurse off our hot new night manager, but she said I was just "being penile." I wonder if she meant "senile"? Young people today don't got any educatiom...
Anyway, what I meant to do was to tell you about my exercise regimen. When you're as old as I am (think Methuselah) you want to try to stay in shape. (Come to think of it, I'm not sure why. Without exercising I am going to kick the bucket 10 minutes sooner? Bring it on.)
This is representative of my morning workout:
--Deep knee bends (putting on trousers)
--Crunches (putting on socks)
--Weightlifting (donning fleece-lined sweatshirt)
--Treadmill (4th trip to bathroom)
And I do this EVERY DAY! No wonder I'm so tired.
+ + + + + + + +
I think the general lack of exercise around here is what makes us lose our appetites. Meal after meal, you can look on our plates and see leftovers that would make a Sudanese weep. Barbecued pork sandwich: insides scraped out, half-eaten, bun left behind. Peas: buttered, then ignored. Squash: toyed with, declined.
This might be a good thing; the cook is slopping hogs in the kitchen.
+ + + + + + + +
I think I need a new job. And maybe I got one sorta lined up: Daughter said she'd pay me to quit writing on the internet. According to her, she said, "You're making a fool of yourself." With my bad hearing, I heard her say: "You're a jewel."
So why would I want to quit THIS job?
Anyway, what I meant to do was to tell you about my exercise regimen. When you're as old as I am (think Methuselah) you want to try to stay in shape. (Come to think of it, I'm not sure why. Without exercising I am going to kick the bucket 10 minutes sooner? Bring it on.)
This is representative of my morning workout:
--Deep knee bends (putting on trousers)
--Crunches (putting on socks)
--Weightlifting (donning fleece-lined sweatshirt)
--Treadmill (4th trip to bathroom)
And I do this EVERY DAY! No wonder I'm so tired.
+ + + + + + + +
I think the general lack of exercise around here is what makes us lose our appetites. Meal after meal, you can look on our plates and see leftovers that would make a Sudanese weep. Barbecued pork sandwich: insides scraped out, half-eaten, bun left behind. Peas: buttered, then ignored. Squash: toyed with, declined.
This might be a good thing; the cook is slopping hogs in the kitchen.
+ + + + + + + +
I think I need a new job. And maybe I got one sorta lined up: Daughter said she'd pay me to quit writing on the internet. According to her, she said, "You're making a fool of yourself." With my bad hearing, I heard her say: "You're a jewel."
So why would I want to quit THIS job?
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Just Another Day in the Life
Welcome back to Dementia Central. I took a nose count of the number of Old People in assisted living homes around the country so I invested in a crematory. Business is going to be good.
+ + + + + + + +
We had a fire drill yesterday. Random events:
-- Rudy Longfellow spent 15 minutes pushing "out" on his room door that swings "in."
-- Carolina Sister was delayed because "I never go out without lipstick and my hair combed, and I had to put on my Sunday best because there might be news photographers."
-- Judy Goldiblob, told to take "the nearest exit," argued that "my dearest exited long ago."
-- At this writing, Gretchen Howcome, who takes 4-inch steps, pause, push walker, etc., is still on her way out. On Day 2.
-- We all burned to death.
+ + + + + + + +
An old saying: "Energy can neither be created nor destroyed." Will whomever has the energy I used to have please send it back?
You ever notice how much it hurts when you crack your "funny bone"?
+ + + + + + + +
My job in the kitchen today was to milk the maggots. God I wish they'd fix the separator.
And lunch today is corned beef and skunk cabbage. Can't wait.
+ + + + + + + +
Nine people from The Home went to the local Indian Casino a couple days ago. Hazel Nutt told me some guys were playing a game called "Poop."
I thought for a minute, then said: "I think you mean craps."
Hazel: "Poop, craps, doodoo, dung, rabbit droppings, cow pies, horse apples -- it's still a shitty game. All those men throwing dice and lying."
Me: "Lying?"
Hazel: "Yes, there wasn't a woman around and those men kept saying 'I'm fucked!'"
+ + + + + + + +
We had a fire drill yesterday. Random events:
-- Rudy Longfellow spent 15 minutes pushing "out" on his room door that swings "in."
-- Carolina Sister was delayed because "I never go out without lipstick and my hair combed, and I had to put on my Sunday best because there might be news photographers."
-- Judy Goldiblob, told to take "the nearest exit," argued that "my dearest exited long ago."
-- At this writing, Gretchen Howcome, who takes 4-inch steps, pause, push walker, etc., is still on her way out. On Day 2.
-- We all burned to death.
+ + + + + + + +
An old saying: "Energy can neither be created nor destroyed." Will whomever has the energy I used to have please send it back?
You ever notice how much it hurts when you crack your "funny bone"?
+ + + + + + + +
My job in the kitchen today was to milk the maggots. God I wish they'd fix the separator.
And lunch today is corned beef and skunk cabbage. Can't wait.
+ + + + + + + +
Nine people from The Home went to the local Indian Casino a couple days ago. Hazel Nutt told me some guys were playing a game called "Poop."
I thought for a minute, then said: "I think you mean craps."
Hazel: "Poop, craps, doodoo, dung, rabbit droppings, cow pies, horse apples -- it's still a shitty game. All those men throwing dice and lying."
Me: "Lying?"
Hazel: "Yes, there wasn't a woman around and those men kept saying 'I'm fucked!'"
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Things to Ponder
There are some really old people in my Old Folks' Home. Older than sin ("See, Eve," said the Snake, "if you peel this apple first it will be easier to bite while you wait for your dentures to settle in."). We've got three women here whose grandkids are on Social Security. These women had their graduation pictures taken by Mathew Brady.
It would seem like these people have a duty to kick off to make room for some of the new people populating the planet. But nobody is volunteering to die. Selfish bastards.
Just think of all the people being born in India and China. Someday those countries are going to get so heavy they'll flip down to the South Pole. Freeze their asses off. Serve 'em right.
+ + + + + + + +
FILL IN THE BLANK:
1. It's none of your ________.
2. Monkey ________.
3. ________ Week.
4. Funny ________.
5. How's ________?
6. The ________ end of the stick.
7. "Your dog has his nose in my crotch and is sniffing my ________!"
If you didn't figure out the answer until Question No. 7, it means your dog is gay. If you figured it out earlier, your dog is still gay.
(The secret word is "bite my shorts".)
+ + + + + + + +
Here's something I've been wondering, and I bet you have too:
How come celibate priests are rooting for the Second Coming when they haven't even had a first coming?
(I should know this, since I know half of everything. I know all the questions, but none of the answers.)
It would seem like these people have a duty to kick off to make room for some of the new people populating the planet. But nobody is volunteering to die. Selfish bastards.
Just think of all the people being born in India and China. Someday those countries are going to get so heavy they'll flip down to the South Pole. Freeze their asses off. Serve 'em right.
+ + + + + + + +
FILL IN THE BLANK:
1. It's none of your ________.
2. Monkey ________.
3. ________ Week.
4. Funny ________.
5. How's ________?
6. The ________ end of the stick.
7. "Your dog has his nose in my crotch and is sniffing my ________!"
If you didn't figure out the answer until Question No. 7, it means your dog is gay. If you figured it out earlier, your dog is still gay.
(The secret word is "bite my shorts".)
+ + + + + + + +
Here's something I've been wondering, and I bet you have too:
How come celibate priests are rooting for the Second Coming when they haven't even had a first coming?
(I should know this, since I know half of everything. I know all the questions, but none of the answers.)
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
I Strike It Rich
You know all about my book by now. But it's no longer a book. It is a screenplay!!
Yes, I have sold the rights to Twentieth Century Fucks for millions of dollars. I don't know what I'm going to do with all this money (billions?), but perhaps I will donate to a charity like the National Football League. The movie people say they like my book because it contains such stunning visuals, such as the burning down of Atlanta and Chicago, as well as all of South America, and scenes where Debbie is violated by the entire Dallas football team.
I hear that they will get Demi Moore to play the part of the heroine of my book. Since the heroine has no legs they might have to hew the legs off Demi Moore, but the casting director at 20th Century said it would be worth it.
All I have to do to collect is to finish the book/screenplay, which I will now do:
CHAPTER 5
(Synopsisosity: The book is entitled "Long Gone With the Wind and Rain," which will be shortened to "Long Rain" on the marquees. Long Rain is a Nez Perce phrase meaning "long rain." The heroine is Vivian Sleigh, whose legs were chopped off a couple years ago by a woodsman, who later said, "All I was told was to 'Spare That Tree.'" Vivian has ordered imitation legs from the Legs R Us factory outlet, and they have arrived at the post office near her home in Theda Tara, Georgia. But she hasn't been able to get them delivered to her because they arrived COD, which is a cousin of the lutefisk. As we have seen previously, she has considered a variety of transportation systems--via blue oxes, cruise ships, UFOs--but has had no solution. This is where the story picks up.)
"I wonder," said the now-getting-long-in-the-tooth Vivian Sleigh, "if the Pony Express people have a route near here. Or maybe the Greyhound Bus, only I have heard they are cutting back on service and now only carry people to Selma to protest things."
Little did she know, but fate would play a role in solving her dilemma. It seems that just this morning Jesse James robbed the local post office. Seeing a package addressed to Vivian Sleigh, Jesse (or maybe it was Frank) took it upon himself to deliver the long-awaited package to Theda Tara. Thomas Mitchell shot Jesse in the back and took the package to Vivian, and she opened it.
"Good grief!" she cried. "I shouldn't have ordered 'Extra Hairy'. These would fit Godzilla, for heaven's sake."
Godzilla, whose legs had been cut off in the Texas Chain Saw Massacre, came in from the next room.
"Look, little girl," said Gzilla. "I will wear these. You and I can get married and I will carry you every place we need to go, such as tomorrow when I am scheduled to level Tokyo and Mt. Fuji."
And so they lived slapstickedly ever after, living on a golf course that had a lot of doglegs.
+ + + + + + + +
Author's Afterword: It came too late to include in the book, but I later discovered that Clark Kent Goble was so enraged upon hearing of the marriage that he threw a bunch of tea into Boston Harbor. There was no word on whether it floated.
Yes, I have sold the rights to Twentieth Century Fucks for millions of dollars. I don't know what I'm going to do with all this money (billions?), but perhaps I will donate to a charity like the National Football League. The movie people say they like my book because it contains such stunning visuals, such as the burning down of Atlanta and Chicago, as well as all of South America, and scenes where Debbie is violated by the entire Dallas football team.
I hear that they will get Demi Moore to play the part of the heroine of my book. Since the heroine has no legs they might have to hew the legs off Demi Moore, but the casting director at 20th Century said it would be worth it.
All I have to do to collect is to finish the book/screenplay, which I will now do:
CHAPTER 5
(Synopsisosity: The book is entitled "Long Gone With the Wind and Rain," which will be shortened to "Long Rain" on the marquees. Long Rain is a Nez Perce phrase meaning "long rain." The heroine is Vivian Sleigh, whose legs were chopped off a couple years ago by a woodsman, who later said, "All I was told was to 'Spare That Tree.'" Vivian has ordered imitation legs from the Legs R Us factory outlet, and they have arrived at the post office near her home in Theda Tara, Georgia. But she hasn't been able to get them delivered to her because they arrived COD, which is a cousin of the lutefisk. As we have seen previously, she has considered a variety of transportation systems--via blue oxes, cruise ships, UFOs--but has had no solution. This is where the story picks up.)
"I wonder," said the now-getting-long-in-the-tooth Vivian Sleigh, "if the Pony Express people have a route near here. Or maybe the Greyhound Bus, only I have heard they are cutting back on service and now only carry people to Selma to protest things."
Little did she know, but fate would play a role in solving her dilemma. It seems that just this morning Jesse James robbed the local post office. Seeing a package addressed to Vivian Sleigh, Jesse (or maybe it was Frank) took it upon himself to deliver the long-awaited package to Theda Tara. Thomas Mitchell shot Jesse in the back and took the package to Vivian, and she opened it.
"Good grief!" she cried. "I shouldn't have ordered 'Extra Hairy'. These would fit Godzilla, for heaven's sake."
Godzilla, whose legs had been cut off in the Texas Chain Saw Massacre, came in from the next room.
"Look, little girl," said Gzilla. "I will wear these. You and I can get married and I will carry you every place we need to go, such as tomorrow when I am scheduled to level Tokyo and Mt. Fuji."
And so they lived slapstickedly ever after, living on a golf course that had a lot of doglegs.
+ + + + + + + +
Author's Afterword: It came too late to include in the book, but I later discovered that Clark Kent Goble was so enraged upon hearing of the marriage that he threw a bunch of tea into Boston Harbor. There was no word on whether it floated.
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