Cerebral Is as Cerebral Does

Yesterday I allowed as how I was gonna bail out Internet b**ggers who got writer's cramp from goin' brain dead. Part of my plot to Make My Pile is to secretly substitute for these people with some topical topics. For a price.

Some Internet writers find they got nothin' interesting to say so they rely on formula pap, like "Uninteresting Things in My Junk Drawer," or "What We Had at Burger King." Instead of that, they can hire Ol' Hoss, the Master Internet Double. They give me their user name and password and I will tap into their site and post some spellbinding stuff in their name. Nobody will be the wiser, except me and the poor sap who is payin' me.

Here are the categories in which I am offering services:

Gardening: Types of Fish to Use in the Corn Row
Child Rearing: The Kids Were So Cute Today
Child Rearing: Did I Really Give Birth to These Monsters?
Comedy: Bad Jokes and Good ($5 off if permitted to use the F-bomb)
Vacations: Without Gnats, $30; With Gnats, Free
Rants: Any Subject Except George Bush, who needs no help making himself look like an asshole
Walmart: That Bitch in Aisle 3 Never Watches Where She's Going
Weird Science: Which Came First, the Opossum or Lois Lane
Man-Eating Sharks: List of Stomach Contents, Alphabetical Order
Movie Reviews: (This piece will be free, because Ol' Hoss does not go to the movies. All movie reviews will say: "This stinks. Don't go to the movies and you'll never see another bad one.")

The cheapest standard pot-boiler I got is "Blogger Ate My Piece Again Today."

The line forms to the left.

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is suckered. Adj., doilies abound. Def.: How the person feels who has patterned her life after Martha Stewart.

+ + + + + + + +

(You know, I better rethink this Master Internet Double idear. It sounds a lot like work, and if I have to work to Make My Pile, I ain't very interested.)

I Can Do It For You Wholesale

There's a lotta Bible study here in The Old Folks' Home. Some people is naturally worried about the hereinafter; they get kind of morose, really, which is too bad. It is especially bad because if they read the Bible atall they would know they's supposed to be happy.

In the fourth chapter of Philippians, Ol' Paul* says, "I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation."

Don't that sound just like your buddy Ol' Hoss? "Happy as a clam." "Oh Happy Day." "Happier than a two-peckered billy goat."

The problem is that this might work to my disadvantage in my new occupation. If you're happy all the time how can you rant effectively about bumble-dick government, bad porn, taxes, and impertinent children? But I guess I gotta do it because there's such a need: I am gonna be writing Internet pieces for people whose wells have run dry.

I probably haven't told you about this before. See, what I went and done is incorporate myself as "Master Internet Double." People are gonna hire me as secret agent to write their Internet pieces when they got nothing to say but don't want their readers to know they has run out of material. There is no greater shame than to run out of material and be left b**gging on such topics as:

"The various colors of puke"
"I guess I'll go to bed now"
"Even coffee isn't helping this morning"
"Here's another one from the archives"
"Maybe I'll have something tomorrow"

Maybe I'll have something tomorrow on my categories of service, with a price list. Well, actually, there's no maybe about it. Hoss always has something tomorrow.

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is guess. Vb., that's odd. Def.: What you do when you see in the midriff of a sunbather what is either an "outie" belly button or a large piece of lint.

+ + + + + + + +

* Paul, also known as Saul, was a tent-maker in real life. You thought all tent-makers were named Omar, didn't you?

The Color of Hoss

I really think I am onto something this time. There could be big bucks in this one. In which case Making My Pile will be assured.

For anybody who hasn't been here afore, Ol' Hoss desperately needs to make a pile of money before he gets figuratively buried on the Lone Prairie because he don't plan to be buried but to be cremated. And it is expensive to take care of these particular cremains, which is funeral director-speak for ashes and bone splinters.

See, what I been thinking is to have my ashes attached to Halley's Comet so you can see me coming your way every 76 years or so. I also have contemplated having these cremains attached to a gray whale so I would get to go south every winter. Cold weather kind of conflicts with my idea of happiness.

Well, I don't need to decide this today because my doctor said I have two years left. Now that was in March, so I guess now I have 1 and 2/3rds years left. Plenty of time to make life or death decisions about wise use of cremains. One thing I have decided is that I want my cremains remaining all together so that when the medicos figure out how to cure what killed me they'll be able to reconstitute me, sorta like they do with freeze-dried food.

So the bottom line is I gotta make some money to pay for all this, and what better way than to invent a new color? I have spent a lot of time on this. I don't have a kitchen, so I've had to do my scientific work in the bathtub, which is okay because I am not making bathtub beer.

I have been in touch with the Crayola people and, naturally, they is intrigued, because as any fool knows, 120 colors is not enough. People everywhere are demanding new colors for their shirts, ties, shoestrings and footballs. And if there is one thing Ol' Hoss is good at (and there is), it is meeting pent-up demand. Remember how I invented the Budweiser bottles made out of bacon cracklings? "Meal in a Bottle", I called it. Unfortunately I didn't make any money on it because the Chinese can make bottles out of imitation bacon cracklings a lot cheaper than I can.

Bein's as I am a nice guy, I am going to tell you what color this new color is. It's frobitzer. Don't that sing? You got that in your mind's eye, what a swell color frobitzer is?

Well, maybe you don't. It's kind of hard to describe. It's sorta red but more like bronze with seafoam green and maybe some wood lavender. You'll know it when you see it.

I hope Crayola doesn't take more than a year and two-thirds to pay me.

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is red-faced. Adj., sorry about that. Def.: In brushing a fly off a lady in the bar you discover it's a wart.

The Well Runneth Dry

I can only say, in self-defense, that I posted 11 times yesterday at Wisconsin Chris's Blogathon charity deal, and I have not had time to patrol the halls here at the Old Folks' Home. Consequently, I don't know who has died recently, or how funny it was. Some people die off better than others; I only report on the most interesting ones.

I guess all I can tell you today is about this guy, www.thenonist.com, who has written a piece about Internet writers and suggested we go all introspective. He asks, for instance, "Why do we b**g? Is it really still fun?"

Here's the summation of his little pamphlet:

B**gging "need not ruin lives or waste perfectly good URLs."

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is depilatory. N., pretty hairy. Def.: What you'd like to buy for the girl with great legs, but don't dare.

I'm Not Here This Morning

I am not here today. I am posting a bunch of times over at the blogathon page of Wisconsin Chris, who has promised to post every half hour for 24 hours in a campaign to raise money for the Elton John Aids Foundation. So I will be at this place at mid-day Wisconsin time, and then again later on.

However, since you're here, you might as well get in on the latest pro-environment hobby, slug training. If I can get slugs to find their way through this salt maze I don't know what good it will be but it's gotta be good for something. For instance, this is a lot better than clubbing harp seal pups. And it sure beats training pigeons to shit on people who are downtown shopping, which is what was happening in this space yesterday.

+ + + + + + + +

From my buddy Oz of Australia:

This Easterner is explaining to the Westerner how he finally achieved the life of his dream, owning a cattle ranch.

Easterner: "The hard part was coming up with a name for the ranch. We finally settled on 'Double R Lazy L Triple Horseshoe Bar-7 Lucky Diamond Ranch.'"
Westerner: "How many cattle you got?"
Easterner: "None of them survived the branding."

+ + + + + + +

My favorite word today is open. Adj., at the ready. Def.: The shape of a mouth waiting to spew its two-bits worth while somebody else is carrying on.

Once More Unto the Breach

There are about 500,000 words in the English language, according to my dictionary freak, of which penis is only one. The average educated person knows about 20,000 words and uses 2,000 in a week, this know-it-all tells me.

It seems to me that at that rate, this average educated person would run out of words in ten days. So then he shifts to French? Which has only 160,000 words, and that's when you count such strange ones as le hit parade and le Starbuck's.

I don't know. Maybe it doesn't work that way. It would be pretty hard for me to switch to French, on accounta all I know is pinot noir, au revoir, and hunchback of Notre Dame.

+ + + + + + + +

Here are the last of the 96,422 things about me, maybe:

98. When I worked on a "throwaway" newspaper in Walnut Creek, Calif., we didn't have a wire service. So anything we printed had to be written by the staff. Some days we didn't have enough news to fill the space dedicated to news. That is when I figured out that we needed to use longer words, like predicated, perspicacity and parsimonious because they take up a lot of space. It didn't matter if nobody knew what they meant because nobody was reading the damn thing anyway.

99. When I went to Willamette University, my fraternity played host one day to a member of a touring German college choir, named Peter Feiersinger. (I remember that name because it was such a good one.) At the time, I had a crewcut. Feiersinger had never seen one before. Which I found strange, since all the war movies showed the "heinies" (Germans) as blond guys with a crewcut. So I always vote against getting your education from movies.

100. Also at Willamette, I had to take American Literature. This is when I discovered, through force feeding by the instructor, that books have "messages," like slyly telling you the condition of mankind ("dire") while peddling you a Gothic romance. It wasn't good enough to read "Moby Dick" for the action; no, you also had to understand the subliminal message, which was that Darwin never saw an albino whale but would have liked to. I have always voted against American Literature professors and messages carried by pigeons who shit on people who are shopping downtown.

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is dope. N., braided hemp. Def.: The Boy Scout instructor whose every effort results in a granny knot.

The Good, the Bad and the Indifferent

Quite a many of you have probably noticed the dearth of poetry on this site. That is because Ol' Hoss don't cotton to poetry. The last good poetry written was "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," and that was good only because it gave us a famous saying about albatrosses hanging around our necks. But the guy would not have been much of a shortstop:

"It is an ancient Mariner,
"And he stoppeth one of three."

He makes a clean play on only one of three balls hit to him? Sounds suspiciously like a Seattle Mariner to me.

The only other good poem was "The Rime of the Ancient Raven" by Edgar Poe, and it was good only because it warned us about getting shit on by seagulls while we're at the coast.

The problem with a lot of today's poetry is that it don't "rime." Now here is some pretty fair poetry, handwritten by Ol' Hoss:

A lot of guide dogs for the blind,
Have never seen the Golden Hind.

You see that? That's actually got prize-winning potential. And it's sort of classic because it make sense. Also, it rhymes good. A guy could start there and segue right into some iambic pentameter and maybe spew out a sonnet or two. But no; modern poetry writers like to piss around with words that sorta rhyme but by God do not rhyme. For instance:

The weather was quite cold and bitter,
About which Mark Twain often nattered.

No way on God's green earth does "bitter" rhyme with "nattered." Never happen. You might as well say that "gargantuan" rhymes with "huge mother sucker." Hoo boy, that kind of writing pisses me off.

There is only one kind of poetry that really ought to be pandered to. That's the kind that has a message, sort of like a Sunday serrmon. Here's what I mean:

"Time and tide wait for no man, and then kick ass, man."

"One fish, two fish, three fish, go fish,
"Be real careful when you're trimmin' blowfish."

"You ought to eat an apple a day,
"Unless you're really interested in buyin' your doctor another goddam Cadillac, and that ain't hay."

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word of the day is rube. N., dumbass. Def.: A guy who goes around inventing phrases we've heard a hundred times, like "Life is just a bowl of cherry bombs."

Slug Bait for Dinner*

I regret to report that I have no idea who sent this to me. I don't get stalked a lot, so it probably wasn't one of those. I am publishing it here because I want you to know what I think of me.

It was smart of me to quit smoking. I have gained 400,000 dollars.

+ + + + + + + +

I had occasion to go back into my archives and I found something that needs to be re-stated but rewritten. It is key to evolutionary theory. Here it is, in the form of a question to you:

"If it were up to you, would you populate the world with more people like you, or more people like me?" Take your time. I got all day.

+ + + + + + + +

To help you out, here are some more of the 38,477 things about me:

96. The way I got to be speechwriter for Oregon Governor Tom McCall was this: His administrative assistant offered the job, and said, "Think about it." And I said, "I don't need to think about it. I'll do it. You see, just the other day I got a Fortune Cookie message that said 'Opportunity is coming your way.' This must be it." Boy howdy, that was a good job. All the good advice I ever got came from psychotherapists Fortune Cookies.

97. In 1970 I had a bit part in a locally produced play, "The Andersonville Trial." It was based on the story of a guy who presided over a prison built by the Confederacy to house Union soldiers. I had one line, spoken to the chief prosecutor: "You make me feel old." And then the first thing I knew, I actually got to be old. I have always voted for The Old Days, when I was young.

+ + + + + + + +

Terrorists who are trying to kill our people resent being called "towel heads." What they wear on their heads is not actually a towel but a small folded sheet. "Please," they urge, "call us sheet heads."

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is creeps. N., insecurity. Def.: The feeling, as you begin your trip, that you have left something behind but you can't remember what it is except that it will be whatever the Target store in the next town is out of.

+ + + + + + + +

(* Some people can't wait and have it for lunch.)

Truckin' on Down to Shantytown*

From the minutes of the Resident Council of my Old Folks' Home:

"Residents have a concern about other residents pushing residents in wheelchairs. It was discussed if they can or not. It was noted it depends on the situation." In other words, yesno.

+ + + + + + + +

This lady is on a bus behind two Italian guys, and she overhears one say to the other:

"Emma come first. Den I come. Den two asses come together. I come once-a-more. Two asses, they come together again. I come again and pee twice. Then I come one lasta time."

The lady says, "Please don't discuss your sex life in public."

He says, "Hey, calma down, lady. Who talkin' 'bout sexa? I'm just tellin' my friend how to spell Mississippi."

+ + + + + + + +

You know about "coprolalia"? It's what afflicts victims of Tourette Syndrome. These people occasionally burst into loud fits of swearing "damn-hell-piss-shit" and the like. One treatment is an injection of botulinin toxin in the vocal cords, which tones down the volume of the outburst. That's the same stuff as Botox, so I guess if you got any wrinkles in your vocal cords it will smooth them right out. And the toned-down swearer can only say "damn-hell-piss-shit."

+ + + + + + + +

Well, I think I'm all set with my next book. I have sent it to J.K. Rowling because I know she'll want to write a review. But see what you think:

"Johnny Reb and the Half-Breed Prince"

Call me Ishmaelstrom. I am the narrator of this tale. I'm going to let you in on something:

On Page 1 Johnny Reb gets some action in the local red light district. On Page 586 the Half-Breed Prince, an Indian named Sometimes Standing Bull, is killed, which pretty much kisses off the story. Everything in between is pretty sappy."

Finis.

(Let me know if you think 586 pages is too many.)

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is quiver. N., of lard butts. Def.: The flab hanging from the upper arm of fat old people that wobbles uncontrollably when they gesture.

+ + + + + + + +

(* The title of this piece has nothing to do with anything. I get pretty bummed out writing titles.)

Salem History and Then Some

I think I should tell you something about where Ol' Hoss lives, which is in Salem, Oregon. Salem was probably settled in 1840 by a preacher named Jason Lee. Nobody living today was there, so this is just a wild guess. "Salem" is an anglicized version of the Hebrew word "shalom," which means "up yours."

Salem is the capital of Oregon. This Capitol Building was built in 1937 because we had trouble keepin' our previous capitols out of harm's way. One of them burned up in 1855 out of sympathy for Sherman's impending march through Georgia. Another of them burned up in 1935 out of sympathy for Clark Gable's mad dash through Atlanta as it went up in smoke.

Salem is about 23 miles north of Scio, which is a small... Or maybe that's Albany. Whichever is on the freeway. Then about 20 miles over to the west is Falls City. That's where the brother-marrying-the-sister jokes go after people are done with them in West Virginia. If you averaged the kids in Falls City they would be pretty close to average, except like everybody else they send their Christmas cards to North Pole, Alaska, to get a cool postmark.

Up north a little ways is Portland, which was named for some burg in Maine. If Hoss had been there it probably would have been named for a little town in Montana by the name of Maudlin, which is what I am one of. Maudlin, Mont., doesn't exist anymore but I guess Butte is still goin' strong.

The Maudlins got their start in England or Scotland or one of them foreigner countries that don't use good English like we got today. Before that the Maudlins lived in France but their name was Cro-Maggot or something like that. From England we came to Virginia but there are a lot of Maudlins in Ohio so I guess that just goes to show you.

There are some in Missouri too but I don't know if we ever traded at Harry Truman's haberdashery. Probably we would have if we had known he was gonna turn out to be such a famous bomb thrower. But I suppose the people in Hiroshima today don't even know who did it.

I guess that's about all I know about Salem.

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is religion. N., old testimonial. Def.: Something not meant to be understood which permits a bunch of people in pulpits to explain all over again the mystery of Easter and The Rolling Stones.

Another Day in a Year of Vacation

On accounta this is a day of rest, Ol' Hoss is giving short shrift today. Here are some more of the 18,684 Things About Me:

93. When I was maybe 11, I owned quite a few 78 rpm records. One of them had Bing Crosby singing "Clementine" (Herring boxes without topses, sandals were for Clementine"). Another was Louis Armstrong doing a singing identification of the great players in his band ("Here's Kid Ory on the horn, greatest slide man ever born".... "Here's Barney Bigard on clarinet, you ain't never heard nothing like him yet"). One day a buddy of mine and I decided these records would sail good if thrown sidearm. They did. What a sap I was (am).

94. When I was about 7, I ran into the house to get my Dad. He was in the livingroom with Mom and a couple of guests. I said, "Dad! Dad! Come quick. There are a couple of dogs stuck together in our front yard!" I never found out why I got whopped until I asked some of the older kids at school.

95. At 16, I went ice skating near my hometown of Bend, Ore., for the first and last time. Attempting to make a "Figure 8" I fell flat on my face. I broke two front teeth and killed two others, so they had to go, too. When I played basketball I didn't wear my partial plate, so once when I got hit in the face with the ball the referee said, "My God, what happened to your teeth?" Being a smartass, I said, "I gave at the office." He made me sit out the rest of the quarter.

+ + + + + + + +

A young cowboy in a West Texas cafe notices an older guy staring blankly at a bowl of chili. Staring, and staring.

After 15 minutes of this, the cowboy says, "If you ain't gonna eat that, mind if I do?" The older guy says, "Nah, go ahead."

The youngster spoons it in with great delight. He gets down near the bottom and notices a dead rat in the chili. He can't hold it; he hurls right into the bowl.

The oldster says, "Yep, that's as far as I got, too."

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is goodbye. N., let me offa here. Def.: What is meant by the caller anxious to abandon a telephone conversation who says "I'll let you go now" to make it look like hanging up was the other party's idea.

Who Is Worser Off Than Anybody?

I have long prided myself on being a servant to mankind. I have delivered a lot of humor and soggy sandwiches to people throughout the country, especially in Texas and Macedonia. So it was with no reluctance that I have commissioned a Willamette University freshman to find a certain someone.

Let me backtrack. You remember that Aesop fable where a bunch of rabbits was about to drown themselves in a lake because they got scared by some horses? What happened was, the rabbits then scared some frogs, who jumped into the lake. So, the rabbits reasoned, "There is always someone worse off than yourself." Well, that's what Aesop had them sayin'. I wasn't there.

What I want this freshman to do is find the guy who has no one worse off than himself. I suspect this fella will look pretty much like the guy in the picture. There just has to be somebody who is worse off than everybody else; otherwise we have nothing to compare to. And then when my freshman finds this guy, he's gonna give him US $100 from me, which then will make somebody else worse off than everybody.

This last guy, I ain't giving $100 to. I can't help 'em all.

+ + + + + + + +

I know this swell lady, Wisconsin Chris, who's putting her health (sleep?) on the line on Aug. 6. Starting at 9 a.m. that day she is committed to writing a Internet piece every half-hour for 24 hours to raise money for charity. The charity is the Elton John Aids Foundation. Ol' Hoss has pledged; now it's your turn.

Go to Chris's Place and click on the link to the right that says "Make a Pledge to My Campaign." That will take you to a site where you'll find an orange navigation bar. Click on Sponsor FAQ and follow the instructions from there. Pledge any amount, from $1 up. Don't be stingy.

Also, if you want to provide Chris with some relief posting during the 24 hours (as Ol' Hoss will do), let her know in the "Comments" section. Good; you're really nice.

+ + + + + + + +

Can you spot what is wrong with this sentence?: "21% of the people are 21% of the people 100% of the time, but there is a sucker born every minute."

My Australian buddy, Oz, points out that there is such a thing as "giving more than 100 percent." For a colloquy on the subject, and a real rib tickler, go to Ozguru.

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is tension. Vb., spit it out. Def.: The unbidden movement of the lips of someone trying to help out a stutterer.

Celebrities I Haven't Known and Loved

This lady who is three months younger than me is peed off. See there's this site, The Ageless Project, that lists the Oldest B**ggers by decade, and until I started writing Internet pieces she was the oldest in the 1930's. I don't know about people who strive to be the oldest at anything. I think bein' one year old would be a helluva lot better than bein' 74 303/365ths like I am.

So anyway, this lady, Rainey, has tagged me with one of them "meme" things. This is okay, because I got all the answers to everything, as you well know.

Not everybody puts the hate on Ol' Hoss, either. For instance, take a look at what Ol' Hoss has to say about hisself. It is fun to be me. I got a mirror on my bathroom ceiling so I can watch myself gargle.

Here's the meme thing about celebrities such as me:

1. If you were a celebrity, what kind would it be (movies, TV, literature, crime, etc.)?

Ol' Hoss longs to be an Archie Bunker. I would love to be able to say "Chink," "Polack," "nigger," "wop" and "dago" and get away with it.*

2. Which other celebrities would you make a concerted effort to try to be around?

I like funny rather than famous, so go read Latigo Flint, a steely-eyed gunfighter "who is the greatest quickdraw the world has ever known."

3. Which othere celebrities would you avoid like the plague?

Gerealdo Rivera, Barbara Walters, Joe Theismann, Howard Stern, O.J. Simpson, Hilary R. Clinton, George W. Bushism ("Too many good docs are getting out of the business. Too many OB/GYNs aren't able to practice their love with women all across the country." -- In Missouri, 9/2004)

4. Which celebrities would you date?

Whichever of 'em has got enough money to keep me in escargot and abalone.

5. What would be your celebrity cause?

To Make My Pile.

6. Since celebrities always get off, what crime(s) would you commit?

You mean, after I has mooned the President, or before?

7. What would be the name of your tell-all book?

"What Eel-Snigglers Know."

(* Hah! Just did!)

+ + + + + + +

This guy is driving on a narrow mountain road and meets up with another car. As they pass, the woman in the other car yells at him, "Pig!" He yells back, "Cow!"

As the guy drives around the next corner he runs into a pig.

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is explain. Vb., hi diddle diddle. Def.: What you do when the matchbook you use to level the table leg turns out to be from a lap-dance bar your wife didn't know about.

Turning Off the Fat Buds

The other day my buddy Bugs Butt was complaining that people put too much blame on their glands for their assorted ills. You can read about Mr. Pituitary and Mr. Thyroid by clicking here. Bugs is right that complaining is wrong.

But what he has done is given me the idea to solve American's obesity problem ("obesity" is shorthand for "fatso," in case you didn't major in English). This is my plan: When a baby is born, the doctor screws around with umbilical cords (and later on making a boy's knob nude). Well, while he's at it, he might as well take out the kid's taste buds.

Think of the prospects: Everything will taste the same because nothing will have any taste. Cauliflower and pureed peas will go down slicker 'n' whistle. The kid won't go back for seconds on fat fries because fat won't taste good. Won't taste bad either. Won't taste at all.

Think of this, too: A kid with no taste buds can survive on just about anything -- grass, cattails, skunk cabbage, fire ants, salamanders....

Mom: "Have you had dinner yet, son?"

Son: "No, Ma."

Mom: "Well, help yourself to some dandelions. Maybe later on I'll pickle some pansies."

+ + + + + + + +

I love shotgun weddings.

See, this is what I get for noodling around on the Internet. You never know what you'll find. Here's something: I ran across a site that reported some "famous last words" of people who were about to be executed. Humor abounds in Googleland.

"How about this for a headline for tomorrow's paper? French Fries." -- James French, done in by electric chair, 1966.

"I did not get my Spaghetti-O's. I got spaghetti. I want the press to know this." -- Thomas J. Grasso, executed by injection, 1995.

+ + + + + + + +

I better tell you some more of the 13,648 things about me or we will never get done:

91. In the 1960's there was a riot at the Oregon State Penitentiary. The convicts did have some legitimate complaints. Over time I became acquainted with several murderers by attending the meetings of their "Lifers' Club," and writing in my newspaper about some of their charitable efforts. Eventually they made me an honorary member of the club, so now I can go to jail anytime I want.

92. When I was down south with some travel editors in my role as a p.r. guy for the State of Oregon, I admired the ability of one of these writers to pick up women. One day in a bar I asked his secret. He said, "Have confidence in yourself. Ask good questions and pay attention to their answers. Be really interested in what they have to say." There was a single girl in a booth in the bar, so I immediately practiced my new-found wiles. That girl and I were married nine months later.

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is mnemonic. N. abstruse as hell. Def.: A useful word that 99 percent of the people can't define even when you tell them it's how you know all the colors of the rainbow in exact order because they spell out ROY G BIV.

Pez Candy Is Dandy

Resuming "The Summer of Compliments":

I don't think anybody would write much if NOBODY ever read anything we posted. And comments are addictive. I just went past 10,000 visitors and got puffed up like a toad. I am the only one among family and close friends that has a b**g, so everybody visiting "was" a stranger. "Was" in quotes because now I know some of you pretty good.

But now then, you take the Pez Family. They got so many writers they can visit each other a few times and get to 10,000 in a month. By my count, there's eight of 'em. But, of course, Ol' Hoss sticks his nose into their pieces because they're such good writers, so that pushes the count up considerable. "Pez," as in candy, for the name of these characters is explained this way, by Aral/Peppermint Patty:

"The Pez thing was SOOOOooo random. I was just looking for an anonymous blog identity. I decided on Peppermint Patty 'cause she's a jock and a dyke. When I did a Google image search, a Pez dispenser of Peppermint Patty came up, and I thought ...hmmmmm... that would be really random! So I did it." Pepper Patty was the first to b**g, and has since named all the rest of the players.

One of them is Aral's Mom, one of my favorite people, TanLucyPez. I've mentioned her before because she has this classic line on her page: "I have this blog so I can comment on other blogs. It's a very boring blog." She is never boring. Her name is Lucy "because I'm such a fuss budget about having a clean house."

Here's the rest of the gang that can shoot straight and write wonderfully:

dddragon, another of Hoss's pals. Alled Mickey Mouse Pez, TanLucy's oldest daughter, holds a degree in art animation, hence the Mickey.
ActonBell, Rahs Speedy Gonzalez Pez, also a Hoss pal and TanLucy's middle daughter.
Me Wonder Woman Pez, Aral's partner; she rarely posts.

Others with Pez handles but who normally go by something else:

Kiddie B is dddragon's second-born twin. Plays trumpet, piano and is on the honor roll.
Kiddie A is dddragon's oldest twin, by one minute. Plays trombone, piano, is a fine artist and is on the honor roll. The twins are 15.
Captain Advil. Aral's ex-husband, who is still treasured by the whole family.

There also are Aved Princess Leia Pez, Aral's stepdaughter; Ekim Road Runner Pez, husband of ActonBell; and Anex Snoopy Pez, Aral's dog. The dog has no page on which to b**g, but here's what he looks like.

Why am I telling you all of this? Because the Pez family is cool, and you should pay some of them some visits, like Hoss does. If I tell you these people are worth your time you can take it to the bank. Hoss never lies except when it's necessary.

+ + + + + + + +

Now then, since I took up all of my space I have put my regular piece and my favorite word of the day over on my second site, Ol' Hoss's Dung Beetle Saddles. Click on that dude and you can read about how I'm gonna make money on holy water.

China Will Never Be the Same, Thank Goodness

Hoo boy! Ol' Hoss, the oldest fart in The Old People's Home, is about to get even with the Chinese. I have an idea for Making My Pile that is so meritorious I'm surprised my buddy Bill Gates didn't think of it back when he was in knickers.

Y'all know of my detestation for the Chinese merchant class. They has stole Ol Hoss's money-making schemes time after time. Probably the biggest ripoff was of my bodice ripper, "Long Gone With the Wind and the Rain," published in this space back in February. That was the book that was going to become a movie that would win 13 Academy Awards until some China guy swiped it off the Internet and serialized it in the Beijing Evening News.

But now it is Hoss's turn to pounce. This scheme is so brilliant it will probably wind up givin' the U.S. a favorable balance of trade with China. That's how much money is in it: Billions. Maybe Octillions. Scan this picture careful-like. See that three-headed idol on the mantel? See those two sticks on the floor? See where I'm goin'?

Well, a course you don't, because you're still riding a one-speed and Hoss is leading the Tour de France. Anyway, those items are key to my latest swindle, which is Hoss Joss Sticks and Diddling of Asia. A joss stick is incense which is burned in front of a Chinese idol or shrine. A three-header is a big name in the idol game.

What a lot of Chinese do is burn their joss while they toss a couple of sticks in front of this idol guy, which is not unlike an American Idol judge on accounta it has a lot of talking heads. The sticks are flat on one side and rounded on the other. When a guy tosses them in the air and they both land flat side down, that represents Good Fortune. If one of the sticks lands flat side up, that represents Bad Luck. This isn't like Fortune Cookies, which sometimes can't be understood at all.

Here's the key: If the Bad Luck happens, the Chinese get hot under the collar, threaten their idol and sometimes burn it up.

Now then, because Oregon has so damn many trees, I can make three-headed idols and throwin' sticks till you got 'em comin' out the wazoo. And the Chinese will be burnin' my idols right regular, because I am gonna sell 'em loaded sticks. I will fix it so that one of these sticks never lands flat side down. So, poof! another three-headed idol goes up in smoke. And, sweet Jesus, they buy a new one from Ol' Hoss because he's got so much damn wood he can make these idols really cheapo.

There are 1.3 billion Chinese. I am such a damn good merchandiser (just look what Billy Bob Gates and Ol' Hoss has done with Microsoft XP), I expect to turn at least half of 'em on to Hoss Joss Sticks and the Diddle.

Oh, the joss incense stuff? Outsourced to Tibet.

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is incense. Vb., take care. Def.: What you don't want to do to Mother Nature if you're living in a double-wide in Florida.

Sort of Back in the Book Business

Last week I tried a couple of times to post that picture of the Oregon Sea Lion Caves, and it just didn't take. But I am a persistent cuss, so I've finally been able to get 'er done. I don't have room for it in this post, though, but if you click here at This Place you can see the picture. It's pretty nifty.

+ + + + + + + +

The Smithsonian Institution is all over me like a tall dog. Folks there want me to donate my latest archaeological find, a missing piece of The Bible. See, on my last trip to Dallas, Texas, I was fumbling around in my treasure maps and I came across one that led me to an historical hotspot. There is where I found The Book of Hemp, which now has been designated as "The Grassy Knoll Scroll."

We all should have known there was a lost book of The Bible. In Numero Uno 4:12 it says, "The odds of getting high are very high, according to the Hempsters." I didn't check this quote but the Numbers guy was a pretty good oddsmaker so it makes sense. He also went on to describe the hemp, which looks like this.

And there are other biblical mentions. In Genesis 1:11 it says, "And God said, 'Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb that yields seed.'" And there's Hosea 8:7, which sort of points to a disaster in Hemp World: "They sow the wind, And reap the whirlwind. The stalk has no bud."

Here is a selection from THE BOOK OF HEMP:

"1. Thou shalt grow thy hemp from seed to supply thy community with rope and paper. Shouldst thou needest to plant cannabis sativa (a.k.a. weed, reefer, mary jane, pot), so be it.

"2. Yea when thou hast an excess of leaf and bud, thou shalt use it rolled up like a fine panatella to alleviate nausea of pregnancy, reduce depression, treat diarrhea, ease the pain of carpal tunnel and do battle with senility. Thou shalt inhale deeply to ward off the puke.

"3. Shouldst thou engage overly in introspection, smoke thee thine hemp so thy life will not be seen as if in a dumpster.

"4. Note well thine hemp's contribution to economic well-being, for by the baking of brownies thus will the baking industry be glorified; by the making of bongs, thus will the glass industry be stabilized; by storing thine leftovers in baggies will the plastic industry become healthy once again; and grocers will become overjoyed to discover thou hast developed 'the munchies.'

"5. Be not deceived. If thou smokest thine hemp thou wilt be able to do all that thou normally do, but thou wilt recognizeth that it is not worth the effort."

(I don't know whether to sell this thing or give it to the Smithsonian and take the tax dodge. I'd prefer an outright sale for, say, 30 big pieces of silver.)

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is backbiter. N., nouveau riche. Def.: The guy who is rich because his grandparents developed land in the Florida Everglades who now opposes development of the Florida Everglades.

Here's My Another Pal

Here is the second of the two Internet writers to visit Ol' Hoss lately. This is
Vicki, who writes at OutsideIn over there in Michigan (in this photo, Vicki is the pretty one; usually I am the prettiest in these photos but I am outshined today). Vicki was accompanied by her husband, F.G., a peach of a prince. They showered Mr. and Mrs. Maudlin with gifts, for which we are mighty grateful.

Vicki is one of the bestest writers on the Internet, even better'n Ol' Hoss, if you can believe. Go see for yourself.

+ + + + + + + +

Here in The Old Folks' Home, one of the main items of conversation is getting old, and how it pretty much sucks. We have taken a vote and decided how to know when you're getting past your prime:

--When you have time to stare at your reflection in the mirror and wonder what is the name of that little thing that hangs down in the back of your throat.*

--When you realize you haven't heard anybody talking in "Pig Latin" for over 50 years.**

--When you tell a joke you have just invented and nobody laughs.***

--When you make up words like "frapple" to describe that extra bulge in the buttocks.****

+ + + + + + + +

From my buddy Oz down in Australia:

Do students of Zen Buddhism do Om-work?

+ + + + + + + +

Here is the recruiting poster for Redneck Bubbas that the government wants to drop behind the lines of the Iraqi insurgents:

"It is always open season.
"There is no bag limit.
"They taste like chicken.
"They don't like country music, or Jesus.
"Some is queer.
"They are directly responsible for the death of Dale Earnhardt."

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is protogenius. Vb., laugh a minute. Def.: The morning-after rumination that you are really not very funny while drunk.

+ + + + + + + +

* Uvula.
** But everybody has a Shizolator and Oxford Slang Dictionary.
*** Jokes are better when they're funny.
**** The name of this is sub-gluteal flapple, which translates as "fat ass."

Is This the Pathway to Riches?

Yesterday I told you about getting a visit from fellow Internet writer Tammy Boo of Maine, and later that day her friend Randy up in Washington State sent me this picture. Tammy is the one who looks like a girl.

I told her we had a lot in common, for the City of Portland, Oregon, was named in honor of the City of Portland, Maine. And Tammy said, "Zzzzzzzz." She laid on me a brace of Corona beers, and we toasted somebody, maybe Lizzie Borden. A grand time was had by all except for Randy, who had heard I was funny but found out that I only look funny.

+ + + + + + + +

The Administrator of Our Social Security Bide-a-Wee has been going around making sure everybody has got a "living will." You know, one of those things that dole out all your worldly goods and all your body parts and tell people whether or not you want to be resuscitated if you get a bad case of yellow jaundice.

Ol' Hoss is well fixed in this department. I have instructed that I am to be cremated and THEN resuscitated in 50 or 60 years when the world is at peace and the doctors have got a cure for my gout. Of course, they will first have to get my ashes back from Halley's Comet.

Maybe I didn't tell you. I have finally decided (tentatively) to have my ashes shot into space on a cheap spaceship (think Burt Rutan) and dropped off on Old Halley. He can be got at pretty easy since his orbital is well charted. This has the benefit of providing my cremains with cold storage but no electricity is required. All I need is to leave a hefty deposit with my banker to pay for the space shipping.

Which brings me to a sure-fire way to Make My Pile. I have doped out that there is a lot of money in scalping. No, not some lousy World Series or Super Bowl tickets. That's for chumps. What I am thinking is the big money to be made at the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV).

See, what happens when you go out to get a driving test, or renew a title? You gotta Take A Number. And naturally every time you have had to take a number you get something like No. 58 when up on the wall it says, "Now serving No. 3." And, naturally, every time you say the same thing: "I don't have time for this nonsense shit."

This is where Ol' Hoss comes to the rescue. You see, first thing every morning Hoss is going to be first in line when the DMV opens. I will race in and grab all the numbers from 1 to 40. Then I will hunt up the poor suckers who have got No. 41 and No. 64 and so on and sell them one of my little numbers. Because time is money, I expect to get maybe $100 for No. 2, 3 and 4, and maybe a little less ($99?) for the rest.

Of course I will keep No. 1 for myself. I just might have to get somethin' renewed one of these days, and I hate to wait.

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is lucky stiff. N., no waiting. Def.: The guy at the DMV with a lower number than you have.

B**gger Has Been Hungry Lately

I have noticed that pretty often people complain that the B**gger service "ate" their posts. And it is always the best thing they have ever, ever written. These were pieces that Hemingway and Booth Tarkenton would have been proud to claim, probably. We will never know, of course, for they are gone with the wind and the rain. What's really too bad, though, is that B**gger didn't also eat their replacement posts. (Hoo boy! Hoss 1, Writers Who Got Ate 0).

+ + + + + + + +

Yesterday in this space Feelgood Haines told us the history of pelvic crabs and sea lions (as I recall). And I ran a picture of the Oregon Sea Lion Caves. Only the picture was of something else. My guess is that B**gger ate my original picture and subbed a cartoon. Anyway, here is the thrilling picture of the Sea Lion Caves I meant to post yesterday. It's just a scenic, so you don't need to look at it if you don't want to. Instead, just take advantage of that little box up in the right-hand corner that says "Next Blog." That's what I'd do.

+ + + + + + + +

I am being visited in droves by people who want to take a gander at the goose who writes in this place. (For those of you who don't know much about movin' cattle, "droves" is anything I say it is, and in this case it is two.)

I will tell you about the second of these in a few days after she sends me a picture. The first visitor was Tammy Boo, who is from Maine. She flew out to Washington State to visit an Iraq veteran with whom she has become acquainted, and noodled on down Interstate 5 to Salem to see Ol' Hoss, which was kind of her indeed.

Boo: "I wonder if you could give me an autograph."

Hoss: "Sure. What you want me to say?"

Boo: "To Tammy, with love, Elvis Presley."

+ + + + + + + +

I am not here again today. I have guest posted over at Spazzymoto's Revenge. This site is run by a 33-year-old lass who has apilepsy and makes fun of herself about it. She asked me to bring the quality of her page down a couple of notches, which is what Ol' Hoss has done.

+ + + + + + + +

My favorite word today is saintly. Adv., too good to be true. Def.: Carrying elephant shit in your pocket in hope that you will see a dung beetle in need of feeding.