Something is going down here in my Home for Dodderers and Fossils. Ten inmates are shut-ins today because something in the air is causing a bad run of diarrhea (bad run of runs?). Later on today I will be taking over/under bets on the number of times Lucy Sidesaddle has to hit the can.
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I was between girl friends when our high school senior skip day arrived. This, of course, is a day when all red-blooded American boys want to get drunk and laid, in either order. So I spied the unattached, stone body that went by the name of Marie, and said to her maybe we could snag a ride out to Shevlin Park, where we could join all the other seniors who were skipping that day.
I guess Marie had never heard any of the locker room talk about me. You know how some people have belly buttons that are concave (inny) and some that are convex (outy)? I had the only inny wang in the whole school. But I thought that maybe if it got hard it might be enough to make an impression. So, anyway, Marie said yes.
I rounded up my buddy, Jack, who allowed as how he could get his Momma's car to transport the three of us. Before heading out, Marie volunteered two quarts of beer from her Momma's stash. I guess all my Momma contributed was me.
So off we went. En route, we spied another car ahead of us and I importuned ol' Jack, "Catch up, see who that is!" So Jack speeds up in that 1938 Dodge, hits a soft shoulder and rolls the car. None of us has a seat belt (this being before the invention of Allstate and before the invention of gasbags), so we go flying through the air inside the car. Inexplicably, I wind up atop Marie -- JUST LIKE I PLANNED ALL ALONG! It was the right position, but the wrong time.
Nobody was much hurt. But there were two tragedies: I never got laid until I got to college, and both quarts of beer was busted.
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I read this: It is Stop Snoring Week in Great Britain, and one of the ideas was "Tape the snorer's lips together." A doctor in Glasgow said, "Obviously this requires caution and should not be used where the snorer has any breathing difficulties." No shit.
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Ultraspy says:
If you have a bad cough, take a large dose of laxative. Then you will be afraid to cough.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
The Discriminatory Hotels and Such
I got to comparing life in the The Old Folks Home to living in a hotel, and ruminated into this stuff:
In the late 1930's or early 1940's, contralto Marian Anderson, a black, gave a concert in my home town of Bend, Oregon. She had to stay at the local fleabag because our only Class A hotel, the Pilot Butte Inn, refused to house her. (A Negro? Sleeping on our sheets? They'll never come clean!!)
The inn was in good company. The DAR refused to let Miss Anderson give a concert in Constitution Hall in Washington, D.C., in 1939.
Marian Anderson died in Oregon in 1993. The cause was said to be congestive heart failure. It could just as well have been from a broken heart.
Also during the early 1940's, Louis "Satchmo" Armstrong did a show in Bend. I don't think he was rousted by the cops until after three encores.
We had one black family in Bend. The husband supported himself by shining shoes. We had one Chinese family. They supported themselves by selling herbs. We love type-casting in Bend.
I bring all this up because one of the inmates here in The Home of Ache and Pain, Claudia Nonesuch, has a lot of experience with different kinds of people because she used to run a hotel. I asked her one day whether she ever discriminated against any class of people.
Claudia: "Oh, yes. These people had such a strange color, and a terrible accent. One could hardly understand them."
Hoss: "You mean, black people with their Gizoogle rap talk?"
Claudia: "Oh, no. I mean those pasty-faced people from Great Britain. You'd think they'd learn to speak English. All the Japanese do."
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Well, I see the St. Louis Cardinals down in the Vatican failed to elect a woman as pope. Instead, they got themselves a hardnose who will make sure women never get to be priests or cardinals, but who will be welcome to kiss His Holiness's ass and ring.
Here's part of what First Male Benedict said in his acceptance speech: "Mary, His most Holy Mother, is on our side." When Sports Illustrated picks the next Super Bowl winner, it will be the team with the most Catholics, I guess.
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The Oregon Legislature has adopted a resolution naming the pear as the Official Oregon State Fruit. Ol' Hoss was runner-up.
I also was runner-up when they picked the filbert as the Official State Nut.
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More wisdom from Matey:
If you try to fail and succeed, what have you done?
In the late 1930's or early 1940's, contralto Marian Anderson, a black, gave a concert in my home town of Bend, Oregon. She had to stay at the local fleabag because our only Class A hotel, the Pilot Butte Inn, refused to house her. (A Negro? Sleeping on our sheets? They'll never come clean!!)
The inn was in good company. The DAR refused to let Miss Anderson give a concert in Constitution Hall in Washington, D.C., in 1939.
Marian Anderson died in Oregon in 1993. The cause was said to be congestive heart failure. It could just as well have been from a broken heart.
Also during the early 1940's, Louis "Satchmo" Armstrong did a show in Bend. I don't think he was rousted by the cops until after three encores.
We had one black family in Bend. The husband supported himself by shining shoes. We had one Chinese family. They supported themselves by selling herbs. We love type-casting in Bend.
I bring all this up because one of the inmates here in The Home of Ache and Pain, Claudia Nonesuch, has a lot of experience with different kinds of people because she used to run a hotel. I asked her one day whether she ever discriminated against any class of people.
Claudia: "Oh, yes. These people had such a strange color, and a terrible accent. One could hardly understand them."
Hoss: "You mean, black people with their Gizoogle rap talk?"
Claudia: "Oh, no. I mean those pasty-faced people from Great Britain. You'd think they'd learn to speak English. All the Japanese do."
+ + + + + + + +
Well, I see the St. Louis Cardinals down in the Vatican failed to elect a woman as pope. Instead, they got themselves a hardnose who will make sure women never get to be priests or cardinals, but who will be welcome to kiss His Holiness's ass and ring.
Here's part of what First Male Benedict said in his acceptance speech: "Mary, His most Holy Mother, is on our side." When Sports Illustrated picks the next Super Bowl winner, it will be the team with the most Catholics, I guess.
+ + + + + + + +
The Oregon Legislature has adopted a resolution naming the pear as the Official Oregon State Fruit. Ol' Hoss was runner-up.
I also was runner-up when they picked the filbert as the Official State Nut.
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More wisdom from Matey:
If you try to fail and succeed, what have you done?
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Degenerate Dominoes
The Activities Director here at The Home for Aged People and Cheddar likes to keep us busy with one thing and another -- movies, popcorn feeds, big poop contests, Skip-Bo and the like. This morning, the A.D. set up four of our finest ladies -- Carolina Sister, Maude Frickert, Nelly Nervous and Clementine Dourpuss -- with a dominoes game. This proved to be A Major Mistake.
In case you don't know, to score in dominoes the ends of the various legs that are made during the course of play have to end in 0 or 5. Say there are four legs with the outside numbers being 6, 4, 3 and 2. Added up, it's 15, so the person who played the last domino gets 15 points.
Clementine does not grasp the scoring concept. She wants points no matter what the total is. "There, that's 14; give me 14 points." "Look, 4, 6, 3, 3; give me 16." Carolina Sister says, "For the last time, Clemmie, that's not how we score."
Clementine goes ballistic. She starts throwing dominoes ever' which way. One of them leaves the room and lands in front of the cue ball where Paul Certain is playing pool. Paul misses a shot, and is steamed. He throws the six-ball at Clementine, but it hits Nellie right in the forehead. Services are pending.
Meanwhile, Addie Loosdrawer and Maggie Hophed are coming round the corner toward the Activity Room. In the confusion they start pummeling Maude Frickert, who reportedly used the last of the soap in the laundry room. Clementine throws more dominoes. Paul heaves the 1, 8, 9 and 15 balls, which land in the weeds outside and won't be found until fall. Merle Hertz arrives and sucker punches Paul.
(It was Paul, you see, who tried to steal Merle's place in the dining room. Asked later why he was still harboring a grudge, Merle said: "I was harboring a grudge.")
Carolina Sister pulls out her Uzi and shoots everybody. It would have been pretty bad, I guess, except Carolina's son had converted the Uzi to a water pistol. Even so, a lot of people got wet.
This was not a normal day in The Old Folks Home. Not abnormal, either. Just...uh...a little different than usual. Not much. Just a little.
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More of the 100 things about the man you love (Ol' Hoss hisself):
14. When I was 12 I got a job with a lumber mill in Bend, Oregon, as a fire suppressor. That was the fancy title for weed hoer. There were eight of us kids who hoed the weeds between the stacks of lumber that were put out to dry. We were paid 25 cents an hour. One day I announced, "When I grow up, I'm going to try to make $200 a month. I'll be set for life." When I retired, I was in a job that paid almost $5,000 a month, and felt underpaid. This is why I always vote against inflation.
15. Other jobs I have had: Picking cherries, string beans, strawberries and potatoes. Now they got machines that do most of this stuff. This why I always vote against machinery.
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More wisdom from the guru:
Why is it called tourist season when we can't shoot them?
In case you don't know, to score in dominoes the ends of the various legs that are made during the course of play have to end in 0 or 5. Say there are four legs with the outside numbers being 6, 4, 3 and 2. Added up, it's 15, so the person who played the last domino gets 15 points.
Clementine does not grasp the scoring concept. She wants points no matter what the total is. "There, that's 14; give me 14 points." "Look, 4, 6, 3, 3; give me 16." Carolina Sister says, "For the last time, Clemmie, that's not how we score."
Clementine goes ballistic. She starts throwing dominoes ever' which way. One of them leaves the room and lands in front of the cue ball where Paul Certain is playing pool. Paul misses a shot, and is steamed. He throws the six-ball at Clementine, but it hits Nellie right in the forehead. Services are pending.
Meanwhile, Addie Loosdrawer and Maggie Hophed are coming round the corner toward the Activity Room. In the confusion they start pummeling Maude Frickert, who reportedly used the last of the soap in the laundry room. Clementine throws more dominoes. Paul heaves the 1, 8, 9 and 15 balls, which land in the weeds outside and won't be found until fall. Merle Hertz arrives and sucker punches Paul.
(It was Paul, you see, who tried to steal Merle's place in the dining room. Asked later why he was still harboring a grudge, Merle said: "I was harboring a grudge.")
Carolina Sister pulls out her Uzi and shoots everybody. It would have been pretty bad, I guess, except Carolina's son had converted the Uzi to a water pistol. Even so, a lot of people got wet.
This was not a normal day in The Old Folks Home. Not abnormal, either. Just...uh...a little different than usual. Not much. Just a little.
+ + + + + + + +
More of the 100 things about the man you love (Ol' Hoss hisself):
14. When I was 12 I got a job with a lumber mill in Bend, Oregon, as a fire suppressor. That was the fancy title for weed hoer. There were eight of us kids who hoed the weeds between the stacks of lumber that were put out to dry. We were paid 25 cents an hour. One day I announced, "When I grow up, I'm going to try to make $200 a month. I'll be set for life." When I retired, I was in a job that paid almost $5,000 a month, and felt underpaid. This is why I always vote against inflation.
15. Other jobs I have had: Picking cherries, string beans, strawberries and potatoes. Now they got machines that do most of this stuff. This why I always vote against machinery.
+ + + + + + + +
More wisdom from the guru:
Why is it called tourist season when we can't shoot them?
Monday, April 18, 2005
Another Plan to Make My Pile
I usually don't put serious stuff on here, but bear with me just for a minute. There is this guy in Australia who has come up with a jimcrack of an idea based on his view of the UN, "which failed to achieve anything in the way of kerbing the (Saddam) atrocities while at the same time skimming off the funds."
"Why not just abandon the UN and start again? First condition of membership will be a freely elected government. Second condition would be a willingness to cooperate rather than obstruct. Why not call it the 'Coalition of the Willing'?"
A dandy idea. Put an Israeli type fence around the UN in New York. Set up the Coalition of the Willing in Oregon. Lots of smart people here, such as me. Viva la revolucion.
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As regular readers know, Ol' Hoss is very interested in Making a Lot of Money. I got my reasons, one being that I'm not quite as rich as Bill Gates. But that's okay, because Bill's my buddy. If he weren't, I'd invent something to put him out of business. What's he got, some piddly little outfit called Microfit, or something? If I wanted, I could invent a deal called Giantsoft and it would be all over for Bill. But I got other irons in the campfire.
What I'm thinkin' of inventing is a board game. What we would have is a four-sided board with 10 spaces on each of the sides. The spaces would be blank. People could put their game pieces down on any of the spaces, throw some dice and move in either direction on the board according to the number they throwed. And just keep throwin' the dice and moving around the board, etcetera finitum. One can play, or 100 can play, makes no difference. Nobody collects any "Go" money because the game only has game pieces and dice, to cut costs.
The game never ends. Probably we'll need some folks in the wings to take over for the first peoople that get in the game, for they are likely to atrophy.
The game would be called "Monotony." Let me know what you think.
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Perceived wisdom:
Spelling is a lossed art.
"Why not just abandon the UN and start again? First condition of membership will be a freely elected government. Second condition would be a willingness to cooperate rather than obstruct. Why not call it the 'Coalition of the Willing'?"
A dandy idea. Put an Israeli type fence around the UN in New York. Set up the Coalition of the Willing in Oregon. Lots of smart people here, such as me. Viva la revolucion.
+ + + + + + + +
As regular readers know, Ol' Hoss is very interested in Making a Lot of Money. I got my reasons, one being that I'm not quite as rich as Bill Gates. But that's okay, because Bill's my buddy. If he weren't, I'd invent something to put him out of business. What's he got, some piddly little outfit called Microfit, or something? If I wanted, I could invent a deal called Giantsoft and it would be all over for Bill. But I got other irons in the campfire.
What I'm thinkin' of inventing is a board game. What we would have is a four-sided board with 10 spaces on each of the sides. The spaces would be blank. People could put their game pieces down on any of the spaces, throw some dice and move in either direction on the board according to the number they throwed. And just keep throwin' the dice and moving around the board, etcetera finitum. One can play, or 100 can play, makes no difference. Nobody collects any "Go" money because the game only has game pieces and dice, to cut costs.
The game never ends. Probably we'll need some folks in the wings to take over for the first peoople that get in the game, for they are likely to atrophy.
The game would be called "Monotony." Let me know what you think.
+ + + + + + + +
Perceived wisdom:
Spelling is a lossed art.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
The History Buff Strikes Again
Feelgood Sockhanes joined me for breakfast in the You Call This Living? Home this morning, where we was having biscuits and pork belly gravy. This is not as good as fried sheep nuts, which is Rocky Mountain Oysters. Which got us to wondering whether fried dog nuts would be any good. That's the trouble with chefs today, those Emerils and all -- they don't think about branching out.
But that's not what was on Feelgood's mind. No, you see, Feelgood is the Revisionist History Freak. He is constantly efforting to make sure I have not bought into the standard history texts. He wants me to Know the Truth. And today he is imparting wisdom about Shakespeare.
Feelgood: "You up on your Willie the Shake plays, Hoss?"
Hoss: "Why, yes, Feelgood. Just this morning I was finishing up 'Two Gents From Veroner' before hauling out my Gutenberg version of 'The Taming of the Shrews, Mice and Voles.'"
Feelgood: "Howsomever, you prolly don't know the truth about Hamlet."
Hoss: "But you're going to tell me. I can hardly wait. I am bustin' the buttons right off my Dickies."
Feelgood: "So old Hamlet holds up this skull and crossbones and says, 'Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him, Horatio.' And then he points to this skull mug and says, 'Here hung those lips I have kissed I know not how oft.'"
Feelgood: "You get it, Hoss? Hamlet was lockin' lips with Yorick. They was goddam fairies! That prolly explains why Yorick died of AIDS."
Hoss: "Thanks for that tidbit, Feelgood. I will be alerting all the Danish history professors with whom I am acquainted."
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I wonder if my buddy Rachelle Loyear-Williams is making fun of me. (Rachelle is in my Geriatric Ward, over to the left.) She had a piece on April 15 about all the list-making that is going on, Internet-wise. You know the kind of stuff: 10 things I like done to me in the shower; 100 things that prove how wonderful I am; 5 questions and answers about drill sergeants I have known; the 50 tiniest penises I have seen, and so on.
Anyway, Good Ol' Hoss has started a list of things about Hisself, which he is dribbling out in dribbles and drabbles. Rachelle mighta seen this, and thought up a parody. Which is okay; I been parodied by the best Danish history professors in the land. Basically, this is what Rachelle wrote:
"Here is a list of things from me:
"100 Things I Suck At"
"1. Thinking up things to put on lists."
But that's not what was on Feelgood's mind. No, you see, Feelgood is the Revisionist History Freak. He is constantly efforting to make sure I have not bought into the standard history texts. He wants me to Know the Truth. And today he is imparting wisdom about Shakespeare.
Feelgood: "You up on your Willie the Shake plays, Hoss?"
Hoss: "Why, yes, Feelgood. Just this morning I was finishing up 'Two Gents From Veroner' before hauling out my Gutenberg version of 'The Taming of the Shrews, Mice and Voles.'"
Feelgood: "Howsomever, you prolly don't know the truth about Hamlet."
Hoss: "But you're going to tell me. I can hardly wait. I am bustin' the buttons right off my Dickies."
Feelgood: "So old Hamlet holds up this skull and crossbones and says, 'Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him, Horatio.' And then he points to this skull mug and says, 'Here hung those lips I have kissed I know not how oft.'"
Feelgood: "You get it, Hoss? Hamlet was lockin' lips with Yorick. They was goddam fairies! That prolly explains why Yorick died of AIDS."
Hoss: "Thanks for that tidbit, Feelgood. I will be alerting all the Danish history professors with whom I am acquainted."
+ + + + + + + +
I wonder if my buddy Rachelle Loyear-Williams is making fun of me. (Rachelle is in my Geriatric Ward, over to the left.) She had a piece on April 15 about all the list-making that is going on, Internet-wise. You know the kind of stuff: 10 things I like done to me in the shower; 100 things that prove how wonderful I am; 5 questions and answers about drill sergeants I have known; the 50 tiniest penises I have seen, and so on.
Anyway, Good Ol' Hoss has started a list of things about Hisself, which he is dribbling out in dribbles and drabbles. Rachelle mighta seen this, and thought up a parody. Which is okay; I been parodied by the best Danish history professors in the land. Basically, this is what Rachelle wrote:
"Here is a list of things from me:
"100 Things I Suck At"
"1. Thinking up things to put on lists."
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Things You Didn't Know Till Now
Tomorrow at The Old Folks' Home we're getting one of those Unitarian guys as our preacher. I don't know about Unitarians -- they seem a little soft on religion.
"That Christ guy was a helluva carpenter. Could have invented mortises and tenons and arches and arch supports if he wanted to. About that walking on water thing, it seems a little far-fetched to me. But whatever."
It was a Unitarian, I believe, who said the Ten Commandments weren't really "commandments." No, he said, it was simply a True/False quiz.
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Back to More Things About Ol' Hoss (the newspaper days): This is No.
13. As a reporter at the Albany (Ore.) Democrat-Herald in 1954 I spotted a football gambling operation going on at a local tavern. (I was having a sarsparilla, if you must know.) Bets were being taken on National Football League games, which was then illegal. So later on I asked the Police Chief if he knew about this, and he said, "No. You have any proof?"
I went back to the tavern, picked five games, gave the bartender a dollar, got my receipt and went back to the Chief. He busted the operator, a fella named Sandy. When they got Sandy to the police station he said, "You don't need to look in my shoes. I don't have anything there." Naturally, in his shoes, Sandy is packing $1,000.
I hit all five games. Woulda won $10. Police never gave me back my dollar, either, saying it was "evidence." That was the last time I tried to be on the right side of the law. Thieves.
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These days, it seems like you can call anybody just about anything, and it don't seem to matter much. People trade invective for invective and then go about their business.
But it doesn't seem safe to say what another person writes on the Internet is "lame." I seen some big fights erupt over that one. It wouldn't surprise me any to pretty soon see a site advertising some get-even help: "Redress of Insult, Brought to You by Rent-A-Thug."
Yeah, I'd be pretty careful about criticizing other people's Internet pieces, if I was you.
(This message brought to you by Hosannas for Hoss, Ltd.)
"That Christ guy was a helluva carpenter. Could have invented mortises and tenons and arches and arch supports if he wanted to. About that walking on water thing, it seems a little far-fetched to me. But whatever."
It was a Unitarian, I believe, who said the Ten Commandments weren't really "commandments." No, he said, it was simply a True/False quiz.
+ + + + + + + +
Back to More Things About Ol' Hoss (the newspaper days): This is No.
13. As a reporter at the Albany (Ore.) Democrat-Herald in 1954 I spotted a football gambling operation going on at a local tavern. (I was having a sarsparilla, if you must know.) Bets were being taken on National Football League games, which was then illegal. So later on I asked the Police Chief if he knew about this, and he said, "No. You have any proof?"
I went back to the tavern, picked five games, gave the bartender a dollar, got my receipt and went back to the Chief. He busted the operator, a fella named Sandy. When they got Sandy to the police station he said, "You don't need to look in my shoes. I don't have anything there." Naturally, in his shoes, Sandy is packing $1,000.
I hit all five games. Woulda won $10. Police never gave me back my dollar, either, saying it was "evidence." That was the last time I tried to be on the right side of the law. Thieves.
+ + + + + + + +
These days, it seems like you can call anybody just about anything, and it don't seem to matter much. People trade invective for invective and then go about their business.
But it doesn't seem safe to say what another person writes on the Internet is "lame." I seen some big fights erupt over that one. It wouldn't surprise me any to pretty soon see a site advertising some get-even help: "Redress of Insult, Brought to You by Rent-A-Thug."
Yeah, I'd be pretty careful about criticizing other people's Internet pieces, if I was you.
(This message brought to you by Hosannas for Hoss, Ltd.)
Friday, April 15, 2005
I Figure That Liars Can't Figure
It is fortitudinous that I am with you today. I tripped on a dead body outside my door in The Old Folks' Home and almost busted my kiester. It was Lydia Halfgood. I don't know why they can't clean up the dead bodies around here. They're a downright hazard.
And if there's one more thing I can't stand (and there is), it's those buttwipes up at the federal level, like President Karl Rove and his dummy, W. Mortimore Snerdbush, who keep saying that Social Security is going to go bust. They be moanin' about future generations what ain't gonna have a pot to pee in. Meanwhile, I keep comin' up with ideas to save their bumble-dickin' ass. Why don't they listen?
1. I've writ about this before, but it's worth repeatin'. THE GOVERNMENT CANNOT GO BROKE. The feds own the U.S. Mint. It can print all the money anybody wants. Why the hell this solution isn't obvious is beyond Ol' Hoss.
2. If that don't satisfy the dildo-eatin' communist economists, there's another easy source of revenue. Think of this: Every time the Post Office prints a new stamp, millions of philatelists* buy some and tuck 'em in albums. These will never be used. It's just like printing money. And coins: The government is making these 50-state quarters. Numismatists* are squirreling these away like hard winter acorns. They will never be spent. There is billions of dollars of stamp and coin money already on hand. God, this stuff is simple.
3. And if that weren't enough, there is always my preferred solution: Make everybody work till they're a hunnert years old. This might seem cruel to some of you, but by God I'll do anything to protect my Social Security check.
* Hoss shows off with some more big words.
+ + + + + + + +
Just wondering: Is it in Cannes, France, that all the restroom jokes are written?
+ + + + + + + +
A while back, in an earlier piece, I advised how we was all going to get rich by taking over a bunch of these Assisted Living Facilities. I invited you to scratch some money together so's you could invest. One of the ideas I had for you to raise money was for you to sell your first-born child.
One of my buddies, Shane Wexford (who's in my Geriatric roll at left), got sorta miffed at me when I announced I had sold my idea to my buddy, Bill Gates, and wouldn't be needing any outside investments. Here's what Shane wrote to me:
"You might be glad to hear -- for it has averted a 'legal action' -- that in relation to the Hoss 'get rich' scheme, I was able to steal back my partner's kid, after I had eBayed him. Tracked him down, spirited him away. I left a credit note for the eBay buyers saying that he was damaged goods. This keeps me in the good books of my partner, who had started asking where the riches were."
I am real sorry about that. But, hell, if you had bought kruggerands when they first came out you wouldn't be in such sorry shape, financial-wise.
+ + + + + + + +
Shit. I just heard a THUMP outside my door. I'll probably be trapped in here all day.
And if there's one more thing I can't stand (and there is), it's those buttwipes up at the federal level, like President Karl Rove and his dummy, W. Mortimore Snerdbush, who keep saying that Social Security is going to go bust. They be moanin' about future generations what ain't gonna have a pot to pee in. Meanwhile, I keep comin' up with ideas to save their bumble-dickin' ass. Why don't they listen?
1. I've writ about this before, but it's worth repeatin'. THE GOVERNMENT CANNOT GO BROKE. The feds own the U.S. Mint. It can print all the money anybody wants. Why the hell this solution isn't obvious is beyond Ol' Hoss.
2. If that don't satisfy the dildo-eatin' communist economists, there's another easy source of revenue. Think of this: Every time the Post Office prints a new stamp, millions of philatelists* buy some and tuck 'em in albums. These will never be used. It's just like printing money. And coins: The government is making these 50-state quarters. Numismatists* are squirreling these away like hard winter acorns. They will never be spent. There is billions of dollars of stamp and coin money already on hand. God, this stuff is simple.
3. And if that weren't enough, there is always my preferred solution: Make everybody work till they're a hunnert years old. This might seem cruel to some of you, but by God I'll do anything to protect my Social Security check.
* Hoss shows off with some more big words.
+ + + + + + + +
Just wondering: Is it in Cannes, France, that all the restroom jokes are written?
+ + + + + + + +
A while back, in an earlier piece, I advised how we was all going to get rich by taking over a bunch of these Assisted Living Facilities. I invited you to scratch some money together so's you could invest. One of the ideas I had for you to raise money was for you to sell your first-born child.
One of my buddies, Shane Wexford (who's in my Geriatric roll at left), got sorta miffed at me when I announced I had sold my idea to my buddy, Bill Gates, and wouldn't be needing any outside investments. Here's what Shane wrote to me:
"You might be glad to hear -- for it has averted a 'legal action' -- that in relation to the Hoss 'get rich' scheme, I was able to steal back my partner's kid, after I had eBayed him. Tracked him down, spirited him away. I left a credit note for the eBay buyers saying that he was damaged goods. This keeps me in the good books of my partner, who had started asking where the riches were."
I am real sorry about that. But, hell, if you had bought kruggerands when they first came out you wouldn't be in such sorry shape, financial-wise.
+ + + + + + + +
Shit. I just heard a THUMP outside my door. I'll probably be trapped in here all day.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Me and Roger
Before I came to The Last Roundup (where I live), I played a lot of golf. As you might expect, I was damn good at it. But that's another story, which won't get told someday.
My wife and I were playing in the early 1980's in Scottsdale, Arizoner. As we were leaving the 8th hole a ball comes skittering across the green and stopped right next to my cart. On the ball is printed: "Roger Maris". Roger is the guy what busted Babe Ruth's home run record, hitting 61 in 1961 (and got a lot of hate mail for his feat).
On the 9th hole my wife and I were held up by a foursome in front of us, so that gave time for Roger and his playing partner to join us on the tee. I am not much of a hero worshipper (except when it comes to me), so I said to Roger, "I hear you're a beer distributor." I guess he noticed me looking at his belly, 'cause he sucked it right up before admitting that fact.
So the four of us played the rest of the 18 holes. At the end, Roger said he wanted to thank me and my wife for not talking about baseball. He said he seldom gets a chance to work on his golf game because people wanna jaw at him about 61 home runs and being named Most Valuable Player and all that.
"So," he said, "if you want my autograph, it's okay to ask."
I said, "I was more thinkin' you probably want mine."
"Why would that be, Mr. Snake?"
"Well, according to the scorecards, I whipped your ass in golf. Don't that make me your hero?"
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I got a links partner (as in Internet links, not golf links) named Raehan, who is listed as, believe it or not, Raehan, in my Geriatric Ward, yonder at left. She is another one of my buddies, of which I got plenty.
She said in comments to my historical mumblings that I should include some stuff from my newspaper days. I am pleased to abrogate (I bet you thought I didn't know any big words). So here is No.
12. As City Editor of the Capital Journal in Salem, Oregon, I get one of the first newspapers off the press when it starts at about 1:15 p.m. On one page there are two pictures. One shows a mass murderer, the second shows a respected businessman. The pictures are switched. Ol' Hoss, true to newspaper tradition, runs downstairs and yells "Stop the press!" While we fix the glitch, 1,100 newspapers that were printed before I stop the press are consigned to recycling. I never got to stop the press because we had a late-breaking big story. I would have liked to, though. I can be quite the drama queen.
My wife and I were playing in the early 1980's in Scottsdale, Arizoner. As we were leaving the 8th hole a ball comes skittering across the green and stopped right next to my cart. On the ball is printed: "Roger Maris". Roger is the guy what busted Babe Ruth's home run record, hitting 61 in 1961 (and got a lot of hate mail for his feat).
On the 9th hole my wife and I were held up by a foursome in front of us, so that gave time for Roger and his playing partner to join us on the tee. I am not much of a hero worshipper (except when it comes to me), so I said to Roger, "I hear you're a beer distributor." I guess he noticed me looking at his belly, 'cause he sucked it right up before admitting that fact.
So the four of us played the rest of the 18 holes. At the end, Roger said he wanted to thank me and my wife for not talking about baseball. He said he seldom gets a chance to work on his golf game because people wanna jaw at him about 61 home runs and being named Most Valuable Player and all that.
"So," he said, "if you want my autograph, it's okay to ask."
I said, "I was more thinkin' you probably want mine."
"Why would that be, Mr. Snake?"
"Well, according to the scorecards, I whipped your ass in golf. Don't that make me your hero?"
+ + + + + + + +
I got a links partner (as in Internet links, not golf links) named Raehan, who is listed as, believe it or not, Raehan, in my Geriatric Ward, yonder at left. She is another one of my buddies, of which I got plenty.
She said in comments to my historical mumblings that I should include some stuff from my newspaper days. I am pleased to abrogate (I bet you thought I didn't know any big words). So here is No.
12. As City Editor of the Capital Journal in Salem, Oregon, I get one of the first newspapers off the press when it starts at about 1:15 p.m. On one page there are two pictures. One shows a mass murderer, the second shows a respected businessman. The pictures are switched. Ol' Hoss, true to newspaper tradition, runs downstairs and yells "Stop the press!" While we fix the glitch, 1,100 newspapers that were printed before I stop the press are consigned to recycling. I never got to stop the press because we had a late-breaking big story. I would have liked to, though. I can be quite the drama queen.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
"....Makes Hoss a Dull Boy"
Yesterday I started telling you about one of the folks in The Old Folks' Home. It turned out to be me. Here is a synopsicum of what you missed if you didn't read yesterday's entry:
1. Hoss was behind the door when the brains were passed out.
2. He's a honky.
3. Losers are born, not made.
4. Something, something, something.
5. Something else.
Now that we're all caught up, here's some more stuff about Mr. Famous:
6. In high school I played the trombone in the school band. Then one day the band director said, "Hoss, you're the worst trombone player in the band, so we're switching you to tuba. It takes a lot of talent to be a bad tuba player." This was a good thing. My folks sold my trombone and sent me to Boy Scout camp.
7. I only had to play tuba during football season, because for the rest of the year I was an athaletic strap. I played basketball and participated in track. In college, I set the record in track for long jumping. It wasn't very far, but this school was noted more for brainiacs (like Mr. Mensa Hosstail) than athletiacs.
8. In college I joined a fraternity. My roommate taught me to smoke. Now, 55 years later, my doctor has taught me NOT to smoke. I am easily led.
9. I have been married a lot. I married my present wife twice, it worked out so bad the first time around. I have several children. They all know I am taking My Pile with me, so they generally ignore me. Which is fine because they got all these grandkids who are nothing but knee-biters and panty-poopers. But, just like you, they all love me.
10. I have had 15 different jobs (not counting juvenile delinquency and juvenile employment), all but one of which could have been a career post. The one that was sure to dead-end was as speechwriter for Oregon Gov. Tom McCall, since he was limited to two terms. He was a great environmentalist. He once described a smelly paper plant south of Salem, Oregon, as "a stinking cancer on the broad green bosom of the Willamette Valley." I didn't write that. I wasn't mean enough.
11. (Why stop when you're on a roll?) One of my juvenile jobs was as public address announcer for City League Softball. In those days it was common for the announcer to say who was at bat, who was on deck, and who was the third to bat -- the batter "in the hole." This traveling all-star team came through; they thought they were funny. So here were their first three batters, as announced by Young Hoss: "Now batting, White, with Crapp on deck and Glasscock in the hole." The adults in the audience booed when Hoss giggled.
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There once was a writer named Hoss,
Who with words was not at a loss.
He proved right away
With the rhyme of the day,
Toss, gauss, moss, joss, sauce, and boss.
Burma Shave.
1. Hoss was behind the door when the brains were passed out.
2. He's a honky.
3. Losers are born, not made.
4. Something, something, something.
5. Something else.
Now that we're all caught up, here's some more stuff about Mr. Famous:
6. In high school I played the trombone in the school band. Then one day the band director said, "Hoss, you're the worst trombone player in the band, so we're switching you to tuba. It takes a lot of talent to be a bad tuba player." This was a good thing. My folks sold my trombone and sent me to Boy Scout camp.
7. I only had to play tuba during football season, because for the rest of the year I was an athaletic strap. I played basketball and participated in track. In college, I set the record in track for long jumping. It wasn't very far, but this school was noted more for brainiacs (like Mr. Mensa Hosstail) than athletiacs.
8. In college I joined a fraternity. My roommate taught me to smoke. Now, 55 years later, my doctor has taught me NOT to smoke. I am easily led.
9. I have been married a lot. I married my present wife twice, it worked out so bad the first time around. I have several children. They all know I am taking My Pile with me, so they generally ignore me. Which is fine because they got all these grandkids who are nothing but knee-biters and panty-poopers. But, just like you, they all love me.
10. I have had 15 different jobs (not counting juvenile delinquency and juvenile employment), all but one of which could have been a career post. The one that was sure to dead-end was as speechwriter for Oregon Gov. Tom McCall, since he was limited to two terms. He was a great environmentalist. He once described a smelly paper plant south of Salem, Oregon, as "a stinking cancer on the broad green bosom of the Willamette Valley." I didn't write that. I wasn't mean enough.
11. (Why stop when you're on a roll?) One of my juvenile jobs was as public address announcer for City League Softball. In those days it was common for the announcer to say who was at bat, who was on deck, and who was the third to bat -- the batter "in the hole." This traveling all-star team came through; they thought they were funny. So here were their first three batters, as announced by Young Hoss: "Now batting, White, with Crapp on deck and Glasscock in the hole." The adults in the audience booed when Hoss giggled.
+ + + + + + + +
There once was a writer named Hoss,
Who with words was not at a loss.
He proved right away
With the rhyme of the day,
Toss, gauss, moss, joss, sauce, and boss.
Burma Shave.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
You Didn't Ask for This
Yesterday, my buddy down in St. Loo, Dave Morris, wrote about hisself in a clever way, telling his readers 10 things about his historical. It was downright entertaining. I mean, who wouldn't want to know that he is body-hair challenged? (You can link to his piece by tracking him down in Hoss's list at the left.)
Since I am an Old Fogey, living in an Old Fogeys' Home, my life is sure to be almost as interesting as Dave's. So I thought there'd be no harm if'n I did the same. (In fact, I KNOW you been slobberin' all over yourself waiting for me to spill these beans.)
1. I was born in a house in Bend, Oregon, on Oct. 1, 1930. That house is still standing. There is a plaque near the front door that says: "Nobody important was born here."
2. I am Caucasian, or "white bread." As far as I know, I've always been Caucasian.
3. When I was a young boy, living in Lumber Camp No. 2, my older brother and I each had a large metal airplane for a toy. My Dad drove his car over my brother's plane. In the resulting confusion, my brother convinced everbody that it was MY plane that was run over. I have been confused ever since.
4. On my first day of school in Bend, the teachers had us play "Dodge Tag." You start with one "Toucher" in the middle of the field, and everybody else would try to run past him. Kids who got touched were then "Touchers," and on an on. I figured out right away there was no way for a runner to win this game, so I went home. My teacher was not pleased.
5. In the fifth grade I was the only one in my class to get 100 percent in spelling every week. My biggest success was being the only one to spell, properly, the word "Febyooarry." Lots of people don't know it's got two R's in it.
Well, lookee here. I'm writin' me a treatist about myself. You prolly can only stomach so much of this at one sittin', so I'll continue tomorrow. And don't worry. Some of the stuff I got to say actually IS interesting. I might let you vote on which item it is.
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It's just human nature to want to help people out. You can get food to take out. A lot of guys want to help women out of their clothes. Gays want to get their partners "out." Curt Schilling wants to get Derek Jeter out. You want a hangnail to grow out, not in. I was 86'd once, which is a "throw out." But I never grew any butternut squash.
Since I am an Old Fogey, living in an Old Fogeys' Home, my life is sure to be almost as interesting as Dave's. So I thought there'd be no harm if'n I did the same. (In fact, I KNOW you been slobberin' all over yourself waiting for me to spill these beans.)
1. I was born in a house in Bend, Oregon, on Oct. 1, 1930. That house is still standing. There is a plaque near the front door that says: "Nobody important was born here."
2. I am Caucasian, or "white bread." As far as I know, I've always been Caucasian.
3. When I was a young boy, living in Lumber Camp No. 2, my older brother and I each had a large metal airplane for a toy. My Dad drove his car over my brother's plane. In the resulting confusion, my brother convinced everbody that it was MY plane that was run over. I have been confused ever since.
4. On my first day of school in Bend, the teachers had us play "Dodge Tag." You start with one "Toucher" in the middle of the field, and everybody else would try to run past him. Kids who got touched were then "Touchers," and on an on. I figured out right away there was no way for a runner to win this game, so I went home. My teacher was not pleased.
5. In the fifth grade I was the only one in my class to get 100 percent in spelling every week. My biggest success was being the only one to spell, properly, the word "Febyooarry." Lots of people don't know it's got two R's in it.
Well, lookee here. I'm writin' me a treatist about myself. You prolly can only stomach so much of this at one sittin', so I'll continue tomorrow. And don't worry. Some of the stuff I got to say actually IS interesting. I might let you vote on which item it is.
+ + + + + + + +
It's just human nature to want to help people out. You can get food to take out. A lot of guys want to help women out of their clothes. Gays want to get their partners "out." Curt Schilling wants to get Derek Jeter out. You want a hangnail to grow out, not in. I was 86'd once, which is a "throw out." But I never grew any butternut squash.
Monday, April 11, 2005
The Inventor You Know and Love
I know you all remember what a great inventor I am -- inventions I hope will be someday instrumental in my effort to Make My Pile of Cash before I cash in my chips. I mean, I just recently invented the "Shrink-wrapped Budweiser With Bacon Cracklings" and the "Cotton Gin Fizz." And that's just since I got deposited in an Assisted Living Facility (nee Old Farts' Home).
I was a pretty good inventor when I was young, too. For instance, I almost invented the telephone. Officially, Alexander G. Bell invented the telephone. Probably he got all the credit because of the name he come up with: Telephone.
But I shoulda got at least equal billing. What I invented was like Bell's telephone but I attached a long electric cord to the mouthpiece. I named this product "The Walkie a Little Ways and Talkie Thingie."
I guess I gotta admit that "Telephone" had more pizzaz.
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I also was runner-up to Henry Ford, who is credited with inventing "mass production" and/or "the assembly line."
What I invented was just as good, just a little later. It were the "Assembly System Simplified, With Inventory Protected Email."
What prolly did me in was some butthead acronymed me: "A.S.S.W.I.P.E."
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Somebody tipped me to a site that lists the frequency of use of 86,000 words on the Internet. "The" is No. 1. "Fucking" is No. 3048. Which means there are 82,952 less important things than fucking. But 3,047 things MORE important? Not likely.
(This site is G rated. The paragraph above is for educational purposes only, and any Government Agency seeking to deny Ol' Hoss clearance can go to Hades. I didn't say "Hell," because that's a dirty word. And while you're in Hades, go fuck yourself.)
I was a pretty good inventor when I was young, too. For instance, I almost invented the telephone. Officially, Alexander G. Bell invented the telephone. Probably he got all the credit because of the name he come up with: Telephone.
But I shoulda got at least equal billing. What I invented was like Bell's telephone but I attached a long electric cord to the mouthpiece. I named this product "The Walkie a Little Ways and Talkie Thingie."
I guess I gotta admit that "Telephone" had more pizzaz.
+ + + + + + + +
I also was runner-up to Henry Ford, who is credited with inventing "mass production" and/or "the assembly line."
What I invented was just as good, just a little later. It were the "Assembly System Simplified, With Inventory Protected Email."
What prolly did me in was some butthead acronymed me: "A.S.S.W.I.P.E."
+ + + + + + + +
Somebody tipped me to a site that lists the frequency of use of 86,000 words on the Internet. "The" is No. 1. "Fucking" is No. 3048. Which means there are 82,952 less important things than fucking. But 3,047 things MORE important? Not likely.
(This site is G rated. The paragraph above is for educational purposes only, and any Government Agency seeking to deny Ol' Hoss clearance can go to Hades. I didn't say "Hell," because that's a dirty word. And while you're in Hades, go fuck yourself.)
Sunday, April 10, 2005
How to Be Funny on the Internet
Since I'm really old, I have to get up about three times during the night to go pee. I probably would raid the refrigerator, except I don't have one here in The Old Folks' Home. So what I do is jot down ideas I had while dreaming -- ideas for my column here on the Internet. I just jot down the main theme, which is proving to be not helpful. Here is what I have written down lately in the wee hours:
"ass kicking ass, donkey softball"
"daylight time, 17-jewel, never on Sunday"
"sell the Gadsden Purchase; wetback"
"resrch, secession from Texas"
"mercury in fish; the whole planet?"
I Googled all these, and Google says they're all new items, available for writing about. If I just knew what they mean.
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I got a new buddy, Tommy Taylor, at www.almostaverage.com, who has come up with the easy way to develop an Internet piece:
"1. Think of something funny.
"2. Write it down.
"3. Copy it to (here he uses the B..g word that I don't permit on this site)
"4. Post it.
"5. Read comments from many laughing readers."
The only place you might get hung up is on No. 1. But feel free to ask Tommy. He's loaded with ideas. Sure he is.
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I guy named Om Malik (as best as I can tell) has written an Internet piece describing something you and I got plenty of: Internet Anxiety Disorder. He says he gets up in the morning to a flood of emails, voice mails and unread posts. He can't get through them all, and wonders: WHAT DID I MISS?
I have a Favorites List that I call up every day. There are 61 of you on it. Which means I am missing the other people who write Internet pieces: 8,939,000 of them. I wonder what they got to say?
"My name is Hoss, and I am Internet Anxiety Disordered."
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Something else I found on the Internet (my last theft for the day): "Practice safe lunch. Use condiments."
"ass kicking ass, donkey softball"
"daylight time, 17-jewel, never on Sunday"
"sell the Gadsden Purchase; wetback"
"resrch, secession from Texas"
"mercury in fish; the whole planet?"
I Googled all these, and Google says they're all new items, available for writing about. If I just knew what they mean.
+ + + + + + + +
I got a new buddy, Tommy Taylor, at www.almostaverage.com, who has come up with the easy way to develop an Internet piece:
"1. Think of something funny.
"2. Write it down.
"3. Copy it to (here he uses the B..g word that I don't permit on this site)
"4. Post it.
"5. Read comments from many laughing readers."
The only place you might get hung up is on No. 1. But feel free to ask Tommy. He's loaded with ideas. Sure he is.
+ + + + + + + +
I guy named Om Malik (as best as I can tell) has written an Internet piece describing something you and I got plenty of: Internet Anxiety Disorder. He says he gets up in the morning to a flood of emails, voice mails and unread posts. He can't get through them all, and wonders: WHAT DID I MISS?
I have a Favorites List that I call up every day. There are 61 of you on it. Which means I am missing the other people who write Internet pieces: 8,939,000 of them. I wonder what they got to say?
"My name is Hoss, and I am Internet Anxiety Disordered."
+ + + + + + + +
Something else I found on the Internet (my last theft for the day): "Practice safe lunch. Use condiments."
Saturday, April 09, 2005
We're So Embarrassed
Some of us in The Old Folks' Home were having a Fireside Chat the other day, when Casey Atbat suggested we each tell something about our past. He said, "For instance, we could tell about the most embarrassing thing ever happened to us. That might be interesting. Then again, it might not. But at least it would help pass some minutes before we all start to nod off."
I said, "Well, that's not a bad idea, Casey. Whyn't you go first?"
Casey says: "Oh, I never been embarrassed in all my born days, so I got nothin' to tell. I guess the closest I ever came to being embarrassed was when I was in junior high school and I tried to find out which of the female teachers was putting out. The principal called me into his office, and he was really hacked when he discovered I was a failure, that I hadn't found out who was screwable. He really wanted to know. So that was pretty embarrassing, that I couldn't help him out."
Merle Hertz butts up: "How about you Maude? You ever been embarrassed?"
Maude Frickert: "Oh my yes, and on my wedding night, of all the times to go blushy. It turned out that neither I nor my Caleb knew nothing about that sex thing. So after a bout of examinin' and pokin' and jabbin' and missionary positionin' and anal look-sees, we called the preacher. And I said to his pastorness, 'How do we do this sex business that is supposed to go with weddings and the back seat of a 1937 Packard?'
"Well, the preach showed Caleb, right there in the bedroom, what he was supposed to do. And he said, 'Maude, it has come to pass that Caleb has got a long learning curve, so I will have to show you this instruction again, say every other day for the next year or so. Caleb seems to enjoy watchin', anyway.'
"What was so embarrassing," Maude conclusions, "was that Caleb had such a long learning curve. Even the preacher wasn't that long."
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I read where the Belgian Interior Minister has apologized. It seems that some of his people who were training others in how to decipher "body language" had compared George W. Bush's facial expressions to those of chimpanzees.
Well, I indeed think an apology was in order. Chimpanzees do not have beady eyes.
I said, "Well, that's not a bad idea, Casey. Whyn't you go first?"
Casey says: "Oh, I never been embarrassed in all my born days, so I got nothin' to tell. I guess the closest I ever came to being embarrassed was when I was in junior high school and I tried to find out which of the female teachers was putting out. The principal called me into his office, and he was really hacked when he discovered I was a failure, that I hadn't found out who was screwable. He really wanted to know. So that was pretty embarrassing, that I couldn't help him out."
Merle Hertz butts up: "How about you Maude? You ever been embarrassed?"
Maude Frickert: "Oh my yes, and on my wedding night, of all the times to go blushy. It turned out that neither I nor my Caleb knew nothing about that sex thing. So after a bout of examinin' and pokin' and jabbin' and missionary positionin' and anal look-sees, we called the preacher. And I said to his pastorness, 'How do we do this sex business that is supposed to go with weddings and the back seat of a 1937 Packard?'
"Well, the preach showed Caleb, right there in the bedroom, what he was supposed to do. And he said, 'Maude, it has come to pass that Caleb has got a long learning curve, so I will have to show you this instruction again, say every other day for the next year or so. Caleb seems to enjoy watchin', anyway.'
"What was so embarrassing," Maude conclusions, "was that Caleb had such a long learning curve. Even the preacher wasn't that long."
+ + + + + + + +
I read where the Belgian Interior Minister has apologized. It seems that some of his people who were training others in how to decipher "body language" had compared George W. Bush's facial expressions to those of chimpanzees.
Well, I indeed think an apology was in order. Chimpanzees do not have beady eyes.
Friday, April 08, 2005
The History Ace; and All About 'Blogs'
I tried best I could, but I couldn't hide from Feelgood Sockhanes forever. This Old Folks' Home is not all that big. I was tryin' to hide because I knowd he wanted to tell me about Lewis and Clark and their trip to Samoa. I had never heard of such a thing, but Feelgood knows every history ever histed, so he had to tell somebody. Ol' Hoss was it. Tagged.
Feelgood: "See, what happened was Lewis and Clark, bein' inquisitive types, boated to American Samoa in 1801. What they found there was a strait-laced society, not at all like that Free Love paradise what Margaret Mead wrote about."
Hoss: "So, they didn't get laid?"
Feelgood: "Hell, no! Lewis and Clark was as gay as a Maypole. You think they went from 1803 to 1806 without a piece a ass? They got so wrapped up in each other that Sally Hemmings had to invent the Oregon Trail."
(I breathe easy. At last, Feelgood has told me a true story. We learn all about the Oregon Trail in grade school.)
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Just before I fell sick, there seemed to be an incipient movement among us Internet writers to rid outselves of the word "blog." (Well, there were three of us. Enough for Musketeers. You ready for this, Athos?
So today is the last day you will see that fugly word on Old Horsetail's stationery. But what to call these missives? I don't know -- missive, maybe? Or letter, or account, or journal, or diary, or diatribe, or rant, or column?
When I was in the newspaper racket we did have columnists, but they seemed kind of bombastic, fulla hot air, tellin' people "Here's what's best for you, asshole." So I don't call my entries "columns," as I am not so much full of hot air as I am that other commodity you associate me with.
We also had people in the newspaper game who could write a "piece." These were prizes. A piece was reflective, passionate, an elegy, a eulogy, a picture painted with words, the human comedy, the kindly dog, the dog in heat too, I guess.
So in the hereinhereafter, Ol' Hoss will be writin' his piece, every day or two.
(Over at www.zombiepiefight.blogspot.com, the Zombie had something similar to say yesterday, April 7. He called blog "a smelly snatch of a word." And lots of people agreed with him in his comments. Maybe get something done, yet.)
Anyway, I get it over with. For the last time: BL-UGH.
Feelgood: "See, what happened was Lewis and Clark, bein' inquisitive types, boated to American Samoa in 1801. What they found there was a strait-laced society, not at all like that Free Love paradise what Margaret Mead wrote about."
Hoss: "So, they didn't get laid?"
Feelgood: "Hell, no! Lewis and Clark was as gay as a Maypole. You think they went from 1803 to 1806 without a piece a ass? They got so wrapped up in each other that Sally Hemmings had to invent the Oregon Trail."
(I breathe easy. At last, Feelgood has told me a true story. We learn all about the Oregon Trail in grade school.)
+ + + + + + + +
Just before I fell sick, there seemed to be an incipient movement among us Internet writers to rid outselves of the word "blog." (Well, there were three of us. Enough for Musketeers. You ready for this, Athos?
So today is the last day you will see that fugly word on Old Horsetail's stationery. But what to call these missives? I don't know -- missive, maybe? Or letter, or account, or journal, or diary, or diatribe, or rant, or column?
When I was in the newspaper racket we did have columnists, but they seemed kind of bombastic, fulla hot air, tellin' people "Here's what's best for you, asshole." So I don't call my entries "columns," as I am not so much full of hot air as I am that other commodity you associate me with.
We also had people in the newspaper game who could write a "piece." These were prizes. A piece was reflective, passionate, an elegy, a eulogy, a picture painted with words, the human comedy, the kindly dog, the dog in heat too, I guess.
So in the hereinhereafter, Ol' Hoss will be writin' his piece, every day or two.
(Over at www.zombiepiefight.blogspot.com, the Zombie had something similar to say yesterday, April 7. He called blog "a smelly snatch of a word." And lots of people agreed with him in his comments. Maybe get something done, yet.)
Anyway, I get it over with. For the last time: BL-UGH.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Kick My Damn Ass
A guy like me who lives in an Oldster Folks' Home needs all the help he can get. So I am appreciative of a missive I got from my buddy Lois Lane, who is at Home Fires in my links at left. She's a pistol. Lois was commenting to me on an old crone in my Home that I had to take out with a crossbow (from behind a fern, 20 paces) for being annoying. Lois wrote:
"The lady in your story actually reminded me of the lady who stayed down the hall from my father while he was in the hospital recently. She would call from her room, 'Help. HELP! Please, someone, help me. Anyone there? HELLLOOO? Help.'
"When the nurses checked on her she said, 'Get me the hell out of here or I'll call the police!' They kindly reminded her that she was sick and in need of medical attention. So she busted out with, 'OH HELL! I forgot again! Oh, just kick my ass. KICK MY DAMN ASS for being so stupid.'"
Out of the mouths of old babes....
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Back in the late 1930's and early 40's our country had a thing called "The March of Dimes." It was a fund-raiser to get money for the fight against poliomyelitis. The "March" basically was held on January 30, the birthday of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who was afflicted with polio. Here's what would happen, at least in my hometown of Bend, Oregon:
The mayor would put a dime down on the sidewalk, in this case in front of the local bank. Then other people would put a dime down, making a line of dimes. All day long people would come into town and add a dime. The line of dimes went down the city block, and curled back up to the bank. That's a lot of dimes (and most of them was Mercury heads, which would be worth at least 10 times as much as a dime today).
I am not telling you this boring story for nothing. The thing that was interesting is that NOBODY NEVER EVER STOLE ONE DAMN DIME out of that line of dimes. You try something like that today and the drug crazies would descend with their scoop shovels faster'n you could say Jack Sprat.
Polio has been eradicated in all but six countries. Pretty damn good investment of Ol' Hoss's dime, of which he didn't have a lot. But FDR was my hero. Still is.
+ + + + + + + +
I ate in my room yesterday. It was okay until I got to the chicken, which hadn't been cooked. To spite the chef, I didn't eat it.
"The lady in your story actually reminded me of the lady who stayed down the hall from my father while he was in the hospital recently. She would call from her room, 'Help. HELP! Please, someone, help me. Anyone there? HELLLOOO? Help.'
"When the nurses checked on her she said, 'Get me the hell out of here or I'll call the police!' They kindly reminded her that she was sick and in need of medical attention. So she busted out with, 'OH HELL! I forgot again! Oh, just kick my ass. KICK MY DAMN ASS for being so stupid.'"
Out of the mouths of old babes....
+ + + + + + + +
Back in the late 1930's and early 40's our country had a thing called "The March of Dimes." It was a fund-raiser to get money for the fight against poliomyelitis. The "March" basically was held on January 30, the birthday of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who was afflicted with polio. Here's what would happen, at least in my hometown of Bend, Oregon:
The mayor would put a dime down on the sidewalk, in this case in front of the local bank. Then other people would put a dime down, making a line of dimes. All day long people would come into town and add a dime. The line of dimes went down the city block, and curled back up to the bank. That's a lot of dimes (and most of them was Mercury heads, which would be worth at least 10 times as much as a dime today).
I am not telling you this boring story for nothing. The thing that was interesting is that NOBODY NEVER EVER STOLE ONE DAMN DIME out of that line of dimes. You try something like that today and the drug crazies would descend with their scoop shovels faster'n you could say Jack Sprat.
Polio has been eradicated in all but six countries. Pretty damn good investment of Ol' Hoss's dime, of which he didn't have a lot. But FDR was my hero. Still is.
+ + + + + + + +
I ate in my room yesterday. It was okay until I got to the chicken, which hadn't been cooked. To spite the chef, I didn't eat it.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
A Little Doobie Will Do Ya
We in The Past Our Prime Home have a lot of respect for Dr. Philip Leveque, of Molalla, Oregon, because we have so many aches. Dr. Leveque is known colloquially as "the Marijuana Doctor." Of course he is now a Former Doctor because the dipshits who run the Oregon Medical Society don't know their asscrack from a teakettle.
In Oregon we have what is known here (and in Turkestan, too, I imagine) as the "Medical Marijuana Law." This was put on the ballot by initiative and passed by a real smart electorate. (Oregon also has the nation's only Assisted Suicide Law. We are nothing if not quirky.)
What the Medical Marijuana Law amounts to is you can grow a few marijane plants and smoke them leaves and buds without getting busted if you are in serious pain that regular medicine won't do diddly squat for. One problem is getting seeds, because selling the stuff is NOT lawful. But people who get authority to grow their own weed seem to be managing.
An osteopath, Dr. Leveque had a shingle out saying his practice was "limited to examining patients" who might need doobie as a pain killer. Somewhere around 12,000 people in Oregon have got certificates of doobie worthiness. Dr. Leveque signed over 4,000 of them. Pretty good number, seeing as how Molalla only has a population of 5,700.
It seems, though, that Dr. Phil (hoo boy!) had been taking his show on the road. He would line up a convention center or hotel to examine people for marijuana-easing-pain symptoms. Some of the people lining up had pretty ridiculous hurts, to wit:
"I am sore at my boyfriend for leaving me."
"My boss is a pain in the butt."
"I was at Wounded Knee."
"I am reading the Agony and the Ecstasy."
"I am easily irritated."
"My 99-year-old mother died unexpectedly and I am heart-broken."
I guess the words in bold type were the ones Dr. Phil heard. And they didn't sound so ridiculous to him, so all these people (and thousands more) got certificates to grow Acapulco Gold.
But the Medical Society has jerked Dr. Leveque's license. They noted that only five percent of Oregon doctors have signed EVEN ONE marijuana certificate. And they said one of his patients was a 14-year-old girl (like that was some kind of crime). For crap's sake, 14-year-olds can have the worst pain in the world, like whether to go to the prom with Henry or Jake.
Oh, the anguish. (Phil, send my certificate to Room 111, The Old Folks Home, Salem, Oregon 97304.)
In Oregon we have what is known here (and in Turkestan, too, I imagine) as the "Medical Marijuana Law." This was put on the ballot by initiative and passed by a real smart electorate. (Oregon also has the nation's only Assisted Suicide Law. We are nothing if not quirky.)
What the Medical Marijuana Law amounts to is you can grow a few marijane plants and smoke them leaves and buds without getting busted if you are in serious pain that regular medicine won't do diddly squat for. One problem is getting seeds, because selling the stuff is NOT lawful. But people who get authority to grow their own weed seem to be managing.
An osteopath, Dr. Leveque had a shingle out saying his practice was "limited to examining patients" who might need doobie as a pain killer. Somewhere around 12,000 people in Oregon have got certificates of doobie worthiness. Dr. Leveque signed over 4,000 of them. Pretty good number, seeing as how Molalla only has a population of 5,700.
It seems, though, that Dr. Phil (hoo boy!) had been taking his show on the road. He would line up a convention center or hotel to examine people for marijuana-easing-pain symptoms. Some of the people lining up had pretty ridiculous hurts, to wit:
"I am sore at my boyfriend for leaving me."
"My boss is a pain in the butt."
"I was at Wounded Knee."
"I am reading the Agony and the Ecstasy."
"I am easily irritated."
"My 99-year-old mother died unexpectedly and I am heart-broken."
I guess the words in bold type were the ones Dr. Phil heard. And they didn't sound so ridiculous to him, so all these people (and thousands more) got certificates to grow Acapulco Gold.
But the Medical Society has jerked Dr. Leveque's license. They noted that only five percent of Oregon doctors have signed EVEN ONE marijuana certificate. And they said one of his patients was a 14-year-old girl (like that was some kind of crime). For crap's sake, 14-year-olds can have the worst pain in the world, like whether to go to the prom with Henry or Jake.
Oh, the anguish. (Phil, send my certificate to Room 111, The Old Folks Home, Salem, Oregon 97304.)
Monday, April 04, 2005
Hoss Gets a Lesson
Now that Pope John Paul has passed away, I guess that leaves me as the only Infallible Person on the planet. So I be sending out a lot of Bless You's today. And Gesundheits, too, for those of you with the sneezies.
If Pope John Paul is going to reincarnate (like Hoss is planning to do), I hope he comes back as a woman. I think he needs more understanding of women and their attitudes toward divorce, abortion and becoming priests. Yes, women should be allowed to be priests, bishops, cardinals, and even Pope.
That be good: Popess Pauline.
+ + + + + + + +
Ah ain gone hitizzle on yr grl fren. Yo momma.
I put that sentence there because I want you to know that Old People in Homes for the Ancient are keeping up with modern linguistics. We wasn't behind the door when the forks were passed out. We are plenty sharp, semantics-wise.
Of course, the problem with that sentence is that, as "newspeak", it's just one more roadblock in the way of Emmygrants from places like Turkey and the Gobble Desert who are trying to learn English. The problem with our language is it has so many idiots. You know what idiots is; that's like when you say "Hit me," you don't mean "Swat me," you mean gimme another card in Blackjack. Maybe it's idioms.
Anyway, for you people who are language-challenged, here's the translation of that sentence above:
Ah ain gone hitizzle on yr grl fren. Yo momma.
+ + + + + + + +
Some time ago I was telling you about the Bulgarian or Hungarian, named Ravil, who taught me a phrase in his language that he said I needed to know while I was working on a road-building crew. Translated, it meant: "Go get me a drink of water." And as the new kid on the block I spent a lot of time getting water for Ravil and his buddies.
At the end of the summer, Ravil said, "Rookie, you did a good job, so I'm going to teach you one more phrase. Here it is: 'Tee eide.' It means 'Go get it yourself.'"
My head puffed up to the size of a Hummer. I was given the Keys to the Kingdom. I could talk back, sass. Hoss rules.
So it was in the fall I went to Willamette University and was inexplicably elected president of the freshman class. If they knowd me they wouldn't a dun it, but nobody knew nobody, so it came to pass.
The class had one meeting, which consisted entirely of me announcing: "We are full students here. We are not second class. We will NOT be wearing these damn beanies a minute later!" Hoss Rules.
I got back to my fraternity house full of piss and vinegar, head the size of a Mack truck. Some upperclassmen jumped me, threw me in a cold shower, tossed in my beanie and said, "You be wearing that when you come out, and it better be dry."
I spent 30 minutes in there, wavin' that beanie and blowin' hot breath on it, and finally escaped to my room.
Freshmen look good in beanies.
+ + + + + + + +
When countries like Bulgaria cease to exist, do the Bulgarians cease to exist, too? Or do they become Irish so's they can be Massachusetts politicians who drink green beer on March 17? If it was me, I think I'd turn into a Mormon. There's lots of good things can be said for polygamy.
If Pope John Paul is going to reincarnate (like Hoss is planning to do), I hope he comes back as a woman. I think he needs more understanding of women and their attitudes toward divorce, abortion and becoming priests. Yes, women should be allowed to be priests, bishops, cardinals, and even Pope.
That be good: Popess Pauline.
+ + + + + + + +
Ah ain gone hitizzle on yr grl fren. Yo momma.
I put that sentence there because I want you to know that Old People in Homes for the Ancient are keeping up with modern linguistics. We wasn't behind the door when the forks were passed out. We are plenty sharp, semantics-wise.
Of course, the problem with that sentence is that, as "newspeak", it's just one more roadblock in the way of Emmygrants from places like Turkey and the Gobble Desert who are trying to learn English. The problem with our language is it has so many idiots. You know what idiots is; that's like when you say "Hit me," you don't mean "Swat me," you mean gimme another card in Blackjack. Maybe it's idioms.
Anyway, for you people who are language-challenged, here's the translation of that sentence above:
Ah ain gone hitizzle on yr grl fren. Yo momma.
+ + + + + + + +
Some time ago I was telling you about the Bulgarian or Hungarian, named Ravil, who taught me a phrase in his language that he said I needed to know while I was working on a road-building crew. Translated, it meant: "Go get me a drink of water." And as the new kid on the block I spent a lot of time getting water for Ravil and his buddies.
At the end of the summer, Ravil said, "Rookie, you did a good job, so I'm going to teach you one more phrase. Here it is: 'Tee eide.' It means 'Go get it yourself.'"
My head puffed up to the size of a Hummer. I was given the Keys to the Kingdom. I could talk back, sass. Hoss rules.
So it was in the fall I went to Willamette University and was inexplicably elected president of the freshman class. If they knowd me they wouldn't a dun it, but nobody knew nobody, so it came to pass.
The class had one meeting, which consisted entirely of me announcing: "We are full students here. We are not second class. We will NOT be wearing these damn beanies a minute later!" Hoss Rules.
I got back to my fraternity house full of piss and vinegar, head the size of a Mack truck. Some upperclassmen jumped me, threw me in a cold shower, tossed in my beanie and said, "You be wearing that when you come out, and it better be dry."
I spent 30 minutes in there, wavin' that beanie and blowin' hot breath on it, and finally escaped to my room.
Freshmen look good in beanies.
+ + + + + + + +
When countries like Bulgaria cease to exist, do the Bulgarians cease to exist, too? Or do they become Irish so's they can be Massachusetts politicians who drink green beer on March 17? If it was me, I think I'd turn into a Mormon. There's lots of good things can be said for polygamy.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
The Observant Hoss, and Hannibal
You know how us scientist types love to experiment. So it was that I spent Saturday in the gentlemen's convenience at the local Greyhound station, doing some work for my sociology treatiste doctorage. All day Saturday. What I'm doing there is testing my powers of observation, of which I got plenty.
When the men passengers would come into the pottyhouse to relieve theyselves, I would check out their package. To about every ninth one I would say: "My guess is you're traveling with a guy who's a smoker." And EVERY time I was right. One of these bozos finally screwed up enough courage to say: "That's right, but how did you know?"
And Hoss says, "You got nicotine stains on your thang."
(I gotta get over my fixation on tobacco.)
+ + + + + + + +
We got us one of those child prodigals here in The Home for Old People, name of Feelgood Sockhanes. Well, he's not a child; he's 84. But he can't tie his own shoes, and can't feed himself proper. Peas just roll off his knife, down his chest and on the floor. He's got three times the number of carpet beetles under his chair than I have.
But Feelgood is a history freak. He know every piece of history ever histed. So this morning he drops a pearl on me.
Feelgood: "Hoss, you remember the story of Hannibal crossing the Alps?"
Hoss: "Why, yes, Mr. Sockhanes, I think about that every day."
Feelgood: "Well, you probably got it down pat wrong. It weren't Hannibal at all, it were his brother Lecter. And you prolly didn't know that on the way up the Alps Lecter's men got sore hungry, so Lecter strangled three elephants with his bare hands and bare teeth to get enough blubber to feed the troops."
Hoss: "That the end of the story?"
Feelgood: "Well, except for when they locked Lecter up in the Looney Bin. Everybody knows you can't get blubber off an elephant."
Feelgood: "Remind me to tell you sometime about Lewis and Clark and the studies they did in Samoa."
When the men passengers would come into the pottyhouse to relieve theyselves, I would check out their package. To about every ninth one I would say: "My guess is you're traveling with a guy who's a smoker." And EVERY time I was right. One of these bozos finally screwed up enough courage to say: "That's right, but how did you know?"
And Hoss says, "You got nicotine stains on your thang."
(I gotta get over my fixation on tobacco.)
+ + + + + + + +
We got us one of those child prodigals here in The Home for Old People, name of Feelgood Sockhanes. Well, he's not a child; he's 84. But he can't tie his own shoes, and can't feed himself proper. Peas just roll off his knife, down his chest and on the floor. He's got three times the number of carpet beetles under his chair than I have.
But Feelgood is a history freak. He know every piece of history ever histed. So this morning he drops a pearl on me.
Feelgood: "Hoss, you remember the story of Hannibal crossing the Alps?"
Hoss: "Why, yes, Mr. Sockhanes, I think about that every day."
Feelgood: "Well, you probably got it down pat wrong. It weren't Hannibal at all, it were his brother Lecter. And you prolly didn't know that on the way up the Alps Lecter's men got sore hungry, so Lecter strangled three elephants with his bare hands and bare teeth to get enough blubber to feed the troops."
Hoss: "That the end of the story?"
Feelgood: "Well, except for when they locked Lecter up in the Looney Bin. Everybody knows you can't get blubber off an elephant."
Feelgood: "Remind me to tell you sometime about Lewis and Clark and the studies they did in Samoa."
Saturday, April 02, 2005
How Hoss Became a Weiser Guy
I had high hopes that the IRS would be different than the regular old government agency. The IRS I used to know was staffed with gentle, caring people, kind to a fault. But these new guys are nothing but goddamn bumble-dicking government dumb butts, sticking it to Old People in the Old Folks' Home.
What happened is that word of my $3 billion windfall from my buddy Bill Gates leaked out, and the IRS went for blood. Since I got that $3 billion in just one day, the IRS figures that I make that much EVERY day. So they got me down as making $1,095,000,000,000 a year. For you non-math types, that's a lot of money.
They not only took the $3 billion, but I am now in arrears, tax-wise. Fortunately, I was able to stuff my new gravestone into my shorts, so they didn't get that.
So, it's back to Making My New Pile. Which I desperate need. First thing you know I'll be 90 and only worth a million bucks, which ain't enough these days to get yourself cremated and scattered on the moon. Which I don't plan to do, but maybe I get my bones and my jones fired into a black hole, see what happens. I'll wave hello to Hubble on my way out.
As usual, I guess if I'm going to get rich I'll have to invent something, which comes easy for Ol' Hoss, like cold yogurt sliding off a hot watermelon.
So here's what I done. I done filed for my copyfranklloydwright and my patent pendergast on "Shrink-Wrapped Budweiser and Chips." Hey, this isn't funny.
Here's what it is (I can tell now that my pendergast is on file): You make up a bunch of bottles out of bacon cracklings, then fill 'em with Bud. Then you cap 'em and shrink-wrap 'em to keep the flavor in. Then when somebody gets a Bud they peel back the wrap, drink Bud and nibble on the cracklings till the whole thing is gone. Hoo boy! No recycling.
I won't hold the Budweiser people for ransom on this. I figure a penny a bottle royalty would be sufficient to bring me in some chump change, maybe $100,000 a day.
Might make enough to fly a lot of us to Andromeda. Might go south instead. I never been to Australia.
+ + + + + + + +
Back when I was telling you about nursery rhymes, in an earlier piece, I guess I forgot my alltime favorite:
"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Cinderella sat on his face."
Damn! I guess that don't rhyme, after all.
What happened is that word of my $3 billion windfall from my buddy Bill Gates leaked out, and the IRS went for blood. Since I got that $3 billion in just one day, the IRS figures that I make that much EVERY day. So they got me down as making $1,095,000,000,000 a year. For you non-math types, that's a lot of money.
They not only took the $3 billion, but I am now in arrears, tax-wise. Fortunately, I was able to stuff my new gravestone into my shorts, so they didn't get that.
So, it's back to Making My New Pile. Which I desperate need. First thing you know I'll be 90 and only worth a million bucks, which ain't enough these days to get yourself cremated and scattered on the moon. Which I don't plan to do, but maybe I get my bones and my jones fired into a black hole, see what happens. I'll wave hello to Hubble on my way out.
As usual, I guess if I'm going to get rich I'll have to invent something, which comes easy for Ol' Hoss, like cold yogurt sliding off a hot watermelon.
So here's what I done. I done filed for my copyfranklloydwright and my patent pendergast on "Shrink-Wrapped Budweiser and Chips." Hey, this isn't funny.
Here's what it is (I can tell now that my pendergast is on file): You make up a bunch of bottles out of bacon cracklings, then fill 'em with Bud. Then you cap 'em and shrink-wrap 'em to keep the flavor in. Then when somebody gets a Bud they peel back the wrap, drink Bud and nibble on the cracklings till the whole thing is gone. Hoo boy! No recycling.
I won't hold the Budweiser people for ransom on this. I figure a penny a bottle royalty would be sufficient to bring me in some chump change, maybe $100,000 a day.
Might make enough to fly a lot of us to Andromeda. Might go south instead. I never been to Australia.
+ + + + + + + +
Back when I was telling you about nursery rhymes, in an earlier piece, I guess I forgot my alltime favorite:
"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Cinderella sat on his face."
Damn! I guess that don't rhyme, after all.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Making My Pile, Part 3
People in an Old Folks' Home (Tertiary Division) like me, have way too much time on our hands. For instance, lately I've found myself wondering:
Is the Southern Cross a punch by a left-handed boxer?
Is the Rapper 50-cent only twice as big as a quarter?
Are 4 rufous hummingbirds twice as big as 2 tons of cow plop?
+ + + + + + + +
Okay, here we go with Part 3 of How I'm Gonna Get Rich off Ol' Hoss's Slave Labor Camp and Riding Academy. I think I'll set up the Riding Academy as a non-profit (which it won't be) corporation, because I'm going to need a tax dodge or two, what with all the money I'll be making.
Naturally I will have to get me a horse to fulfill the Riding Academy part of my DBA, but that would be okay. We've got about an acre of land outside our backdoor filled with bunch grass and dandelions so the beast will have plenty to eat. And here's how we can make some subterranean money on the deal:
First, I'll grind up all the horse apples and sell 'em for mulch. $4.50 a bag, easy.
Second, I'll get me some of those coin-operated binoculars like you see at Niager Falls and install 'em on the decks outside the second and third floors of this place. That way, the old women could put in their quarters for 5 minutes at a time and marvel at the size of that horse's wang all they want.
Benefit to Residents: Sex education.
Benefit to Hoss: $125-4,000 a month (depends on size of horse's wang).
Now, for the sum of the summation:
There are at least 70 of these Assisted Living Facilities in Oregon. By my calculations (unerring), if I took 'em all over I could haul in $4,284,125 A MONTH!
Now, here's the bad news for you investors. My buddy Bill Gates has been reading this right along with me as I type (Microsoft knows everything, just like God), and he has decided to pay me $3 billion for my idea. So you're out, and he's in.
I certainly ought to have enough, now, to buy a decent headstone.
+ + + + + + + +
I've told some of you that I got me a great reincarnatin' plan. Well, I really don't, because I haven't settled on what I want to come back as. I don't want to come back as a horsetail or a snake. And the first smartfuck who says I'll come back as a horse's ass is going to be permanently banned from this site. I got pull with Internet people.
Maybe I'll come back as a banana slug. They's pretty, like me.
Is the Southern Cross a punch by a left-handed boxer?
Is the Rapper 50-cent only twice as big as a quarter?
Are 4 rufous hummingbirds twice as big as 2 tons of cow plop?
+ + + + + + + +
Okay, here we go with Part 3 of How I'm Gonna Get Rich off Ol' Hoss's Slave Labor Camp and Riding Academy. I think I'll set up the Riding Academy as a non-profit (which it won't be) corporation, because I'm going to need a tax dodge or two, what with all the money I'll be making.
Naturally I will have to get me a horse to fulfill the Riding Academy part of my DBA, but that would be okay. We've got about an acre of land outside our backdoor filled with bunch grass and dandelions so the beast will have plenty to eat. And here's how we can make some subterranean money on the deal:
First, I'll grind up all the horse apples and sell 'em for mulch. $4.50 a bag, easy.
Second, I'll get me some of those coin-operated binoculars like you see at Niager Falls and install 'em on the decks outside the second and third floors of this place. That way, the old women could put in their quarters for 5 minutes at a time and marvel at the size of that horse's wang all they want.
Benefit to Residents: Sex education.
Benefit to Hoss: $125-4,000 a month (depends on size of horse's wang).
Now, for the sum of the summation:
There are at least 70 of these Assisted Living Facilities in Oregon. By my calculations (unerring), if I took 'em all over I could haul in $4,284,125 A MONTH!
Now, here's the bad news for you investors. My buddy Bill Gates has been reading this right along with me as I type (Microsoft knows everything, just like God), and he has decided to pay me $3 billion for my idea. So you're out, and he's in.
I certainly ought to have enough, now, to buy a decent headstone.
+ + + + + + + +
I've told some of you that I got me a great reincarnatin' plan. Well, I really don't, because I haven't settled on what I want to come back as. I don't want to come back as a horsetail or a snake. And the first smartfuck who says I'll come back as a horse's ass is going to be permanently banned from this site. I got pull with Internet people.
Maybe I'll come back as a banana slug. They's pretty, like me.
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