Diversity (Rant Division)

Texans. Forgot yesterday to insult the Texans:

Proud Texan to visiting Oregonian: "My spread is so big I can hop into my pickup, start at one end of the ranch, drive all day and never reach the other end."
Unimpressed Oregonian: "I had a pickup like that once."

Here in the Home for Walkers, Crutches and Scooters, I have done a survey of how racially diverse we are. Here's The Report:

My daughter tells me "fat" is not a racial category (see yesterday's posting). Too bad. We would have scored 94 percent.

The Administrative Staff here is 100 percent Caucasoid. Not a good score. But the maintenance guy is black. I gave us 100 percent for typecasting.

We inmates are over 90 percent pure vanilla. The lone holdout is Takiko, a Nisei (American citizen born to immigrants from Japan). Her claim to "fame" is that she spent 4 years in a U.S. concentration camp (Tule Lake, California) in the 1940's. That was when, during World War II, all Japanese on the West Coast, many of them innocent farmers, were deemed a security threat, so they were rounded up and stuck in "internment camps."

Well, I should think so! These people were armed with shovels, hoes and pollination equipment. One even owned a box cutter, for Christ's sake! They easily could have overrun Fort Ord and the Alameda Air Station, threatening soldiers and sailors with smuggled-in nematodes and dung beetles. It was a close call for the US of A.

While the Japanese extracts were penned up, their "friends" and neighbors made off with all their property. The American Way.

A few years ago, Takiko and others like her were voted $20,000 (20k to geeks) to compensate them for their misery. Think of it, 20 grand!! Why, that was enough to pay for 8 1/2 months of room and board in The Home. Boy, did those Japanese rip us off.

The goddamn bumble-dicking government dumb-butts (Congress) who voted for this money said it actually was more, but they had to charge the Japanese for 4 years of room and board at the internment camps. What's fair is fair.

Takiko is a pretty, reserved, helpful, kind, friendly person. It would be well if we all were like her. Except for four years in the slammer.

A Lesson in Civics

The Lone Ranger to Tonto: "This is it, Tonto. We're surrounded by Indians."
Tonto: "What do you mean, 'we,' white man?"

This is by way of introducing you to the diversity of this, the Golden Oldie Home of False Teeth and Hips. But, first, a little background:

Back in the day (1930's, '40's and '50's) there was no such thing as blacks, Hispanics, Asian-Americans and the like. Those who were "different" were nigs, wetbacks, Japs, nips, Chinks, spics, dagos, frogs and krauts. Indians were, well, Indians. But that was an epithet for lazy people sucking at the government tit.

Now that I have insulted everybody but the Caucasians ("white devils"), you would be well justified in wishing my Dad had never taken off his condom. Don't get me started about condoms, which were in the tool kit of every Boy Scout in America:

"If you are a Boy Scout with a dirty turn of mind,
"And you run across a Girl Scout who is similarly inclined,
"Be prepared."

Now I DO want to apologize for all the slurs above. But I am not the one who invented foul language. Just look at what Smucker's rhymes with.

Well, I'm about out of time. I will get back to Diversity in the Old Folks' Home tomorrow. First I have to find out if "fat" is a racial category.

I'm Odd, Not Strange

Occasionally, we in the Assisted Living Home for the Semi-Living go together on the Home's Bus for a trip in the country. We are bold. Yesterday, for instance, we drove RIGHT BY the local chocolate factory. And then....and then....we passed up the restrooms in two service stations. TWO!! Can't get any more daring than that.

Wandering about the halls, here I things I overheard:

Wilda Tightbuns to the Home Administrator: "A man has been coming into my room during the night."
Administrator: "Oh, dear, what should we do?"
Wilda: "Don't stop him."

The Care Coordinator to Gloria Welldone: "We need to review your service plan. Is tomorrow okay?"
Gloria: "Oh, no, that won't work. I'll be dead by tomorrow."

Susie Redwipe to the Administrator: "When that nice young man gives me a bath, I don't think I'm getting my money's worth."
Administrator: "What can we do?"
Susie: "I need him to spend more time washing my boobies and my honeypot."

We Pick the Oscar Winner

A few of us are sitting in the fireside room talking about the movies nominated for Oscar winner as "Best Picture." We don't have a lot of clues, since none of us has seen any of the movies. Anything that lasts more than an hour does serious damage to naptime. But we talk about them anyways. You can hear a lot by listening. Here's what we think:

"THE AVIATOR"
Nellie Nervous: "Oh, I remember this one; I think it's about Buck Rogers, or Smilin' Jack."
Carolina Sister: "You're confused, as always. This is about Charles Lindbergh and his airplane, the 'Spirit of 76 Trombones.'"

"FINDING NEVERLAND"
Hazel Nutt: "I think I saw this one. It's about that Kansas girl who got lost on a yellow brick road. Yellow was never my favorite color."
Carolina Sister: "Can't you people get anything right? This is about the girl who went down a rathole and got mixed up with a horny rabbit."

"RAY"
Gluten Derriere: "Well, I think that Ray Romano should get every prize there ever was. He's so cute."
Gretchen Howcome: "No, no, you fool. This movie is about Oregon's own Johnny Ray. Oh, goodness, my mascara runs clear down to my wattle when he sings that song 'Cry.'"

"MILLION DOLLAR BABY"
Rudy Longfellow: "Why is everything about Paris Hilton? I don't know if I'd vote for somebody who makes sex movies. She's probably not very good in bed, either. There's nothing to get ahold of."
Carolina Sister: "I thought this was another Lindbergh movie, about the kidnapping."

"SIDEWAYS"
Clarence Bellyful: "I wish I had seen this. It's about Minnesota Fats and how he could make a cue ball curve every which way from Sunday."
Rudy Longfellow: "Are you sure this isn't about Paris Hilton and how she's getting it every which way but sideways?"

AND THE WINNER IS:
"The Never-Ending Sideways Flight of a Million Dollar Ray of Sunshine."

Born to Run, On and On and On

Today I met a new Inmate of the Home. "Hi," he said. "I'm George Beezer." I say, "Hi, I'm old Hoss." We smile, shake hands, tap each other on the shoulder, compare dick sizes, sniff butts -- all those ritual things two alpha males do to greet each other. Then, I make The Fatal Blunder: "Where you from, George?"

"I was borned over in Beezerville, which was settled by the descendants of Zebulon Beezer who was named after the fella that built Pike's Peak over in Colorado where the Beezers originated before coming to Oregon where they was farmers before getting into the real estate business selling lots to Easterners who never came here, which was fine because they wasn't any paved streets on accounta the low tax base which pissed off my wife Bizee Beezer (ain't that a jim-crack of a name?) who was the mayor over there for maybe 30 years because no one else wanted a job where there wasn't enough tax income to make any graft off of, not that my wife needed it because I had a good job as manager of a Woolworth's which probably doesn't exist anymore because of all the Walmarts but it was a nice store back then with hardwood floors and lots of dime-store rings and hankies and such that you don't hardly see no more, not that they were such treasures and wouldn't be worth much in an estate, which was good for me because my wife didn't have any of that stuff when she died so I was sitting pretty but then my damn son-in-law dumped me in this place so's I could die sooner and he could get his hands on my Woolworth retirement checks. So, how about you?"

George has committed The Fatal Blunder!

Me: "Let's see, I was born in a log cabin in Illinois on February 12, 1809.... walked to school....lawyer....Mary....erection....Tad was born....election....Confederacy was born....John Wilkes Booth, damnation....reincarnation....Carrie Nation....Birth of a Nation....FDR....World War II, purple heart....Korean War, purple shaft..." His eyes start to glaze over; my eyes start to glaze over, everybody's eyes in the whole damn world start to glaze over...

You're So Lucky

Welcome again to the Land of Nod-off. Because you, my few readers, have been so faithful, today I am going to Make You Rich.

You see, we in the Old Folks' Home are about to be joined, in droves, by the Baby Boomers. There are zillions of them, and they will all need services associated with being old. So here, with my compliments, are Ideas for Investments to Make You Rich.

1. Prunes. Invest in a plum farm (whence come prunes). Prune juice is drunk by the gallons by we Ancients whose regularity has become irregular. (Try the Chicago commodities market, under "Shit Futures.")

2. Trees. Toilet paper is made from trees. Because there are so many Boomers we will need enough toilet paper to stretch from here to the next galaxy over -- and back! Your prune sales will make this product ever more necessary. (Don't tell me getting wiped is bad.)

3. Toilets. It probably will be necessary to put TWO toilets in every apartment in Old Folks' Homes, since one of them is almost sure to be always busy. This will be driven by prune sales. (Invest soon, and be flushed with success.)

Well, that's it for today. This has been hard work. I am pooped.

Maybe I'm Drunk

Most of us here in the Home for the Tired are subscribers to the AARP Magazine. This month's edition has a full-page picture of Enron chieftain Ken Lay. It's titled: "Got bilk?"

Where did that come from?

This morning Rudy Longfellow had to have his nuts cut off because of cancer. I asked him how it felt. He said: "I've had better days." No shit?

Clarence Bellyful "let one" in the dining room today. I mean, really LET ONE. You remember Zylon B? Was like that. Cleared us out in no time. Clogged the overhead fans. Turned the cream-colored walls burnt umber. Good news, though: The roaches are dead.

I have shit for brains.

All Booked Up

Reading material. Don't get me started about reading material. Okay, you got me started, and it's your fault.

Recently, this area's doctors' offices unloaded all their ancient magazines on my Home for the Halt and the Lame. It seems as if the doctors are upgrading to magazines published in the 1990's. Here are some of the treasures:

February, 1958, Good Housekeeping: "Lose weight by increasing your carb intake."
August, 1967, "Rotten Photos Mag": Only magazine known to have published Associated Press picture of decapitated head of Jayne Mansfield sitting on hood of car. (Not much call in the Home for this one.)
September, 1951, National Geographic: Mary Leakey boob photos.
December, 1947, Esquire: Vargas Girl drawing. Hoo boy!

The Administrators of the Home are not to be outdone by a bunch of outdated doctors. They have unloaded on us a whole raft of old books. To wit:

"The Da Vinci Load"--Story of Leonardo's first ejaculation and how it led to development of the Swimsuit Issue.
"The Gideon Bible"--Directory of hotels and motels.
"McGuffey's Reader"--See Spot run and hump your leg.
"McGuffey's Adobe Reader"--Deciphering the Morse Code.
"McGuffey's Spell-Check"--First known correct spelling of "onamatapeia."
"Lady Chatterly's Cover"--An old world spy is outed by the New York Times.
"The Prince and the Pooper"--Standard tale of a boy and his dog.

You Don't Need to Know This

It has dawned on me that you probably don't know much about me, your chronicler of events in the House Divided Between the Sick and Sicker. Malicious, choleric, spying, lying, crotchety old sonofabitch. But enough about you.

I am 74. When I was in high school I long-jumped and ran the mile. Now, with the help of oxygen, I can walk across the room to get my cigarettes.

I have onychomycosis (fungal toe infection). The M.D. says the treatment is a drug taken over the course of a year that costs $700 -- and that the drug effects cures in only 50 percent of the cases. Guess which half Old Horsetail would be in.

My prostate lies daintily at the bottom of a jar of alcohol. Sometimes if I shake the jar real hard I can get it up. (The prostate, fool, not that other thing.)

For a period of years I was a goddam government dumb butt. Before that I worked as a reporter for a country weekly. ("Three mice were blinded today in an explosion at the Bubba Maze Factory...") Now I am just a dumb butt who writes about crones and hags and soon-to-be skeletons at a Home for the Walking Dead.

My doctor says I might live ten more years, or I might die tomorrow.

Hot damn! Good odds for today.

Sex on Crutches

Just because we live in The Home for the Feeble doesn't mean we're dead. We have feelings: remorse, pity, anger, fear of psoriasis, and like that. To say nothing of intense heating of the loins. Well, not all of us. Those of us whose prostates have bit the dust are more or less bereft of hot loins.

But not Jillian Comeagain. For one thing, she never had a prostate to give up, and she's ordered an aluminum casket so she won't burn up in a pine box. Jillian is 95. She has had her cap set (see how old people talk about courting?) for one of the two bachelors in The Home. I could see this coming, so I planted a he-voice-activated tape recorder in Jillian's pad, and one day got this after he came calling:

She: "Say something nice about me."
He: Yes'm. Le's see: Your hair is nice and shiny, sure 'nuff, like the tails of the rats that got into Uncle Fred's axle grease. Your varicose veins don't remind me of anything so much as a road map to the county dump. And I love to gaze into your limpid pool of sties. Now, you say something nice 'bout me."
She: "Did you know you were circumcised with pinking shears?"

Splutter, phtz, sqawk....Tape malfunction.

I Can't Win -- and Don't

Here are major statistics from the Home for the Feeble:

1,551 -- number of meals I have been served since moving here.
3 -- number of times the meal has been served on time.

Several of us have complained to The Administration (saying things like "darn," "heck," "shucks" and "dagnabit". But they know they can Have Their Way With Us because we're too lazy to move, we're too weak to fight back, and we're all bordering on Alzheimer's. I have a plan, though: I am going to SHOW UP LATE!! Take that!

Lunch today, though, was "fun." The entrees were "Spaghetti with meat sauce and Parmesan cheese" and "Shrimp in cream sauce over pasta, with Parmesan cheese." When served, neither entree had Parmesan. I asked the server why not. She told me:

"If we put Parmesan on the food today we wouldn't have any to not give you the next time it's on the menu."

Well, that clears THAT up....

What's This on My Plate?

This morning we had our Food Service Committee meeting. Several of the Old Folks in the Old Timers' Home talk with the Food Service Director (FSD) about various and sundry: late service, hairnets on the servers, why we have rice every day, bubble gum under the seats. The usual. Today, Nellie Nervous joined us, with some questions:

Nellie: "What were those goose droppings on my plate this morning?"
FSD: "We don't serve goose droppings (she meant they don't serve them often, I think).
Nellie: "Then what were they?"
FSD (it dawns on her): "Those were sausage links."
Nellie: "What were those rabbit droppings that came with the oatmeal?"
FSD (catching on, and getting into the swing of things): "Raisins."
Nellie: "Well, at lunch I was served a cow pie."
FSD: "Beef casserole."
Nellie: "And it came with a horse apple."
FSD: "Bran muffin."
Nellie: "And baby poo."
FSD: "Pureed squash."
Nellie: "I'm relieved." (Pun intended? Nah.) "What if an elephant drops in?"

The food here is really rather fine. We have pork chops in applesauce, baby beef pot roast, citrus shrimp, crab louis, apple cobbler, etc. All this is good shit.

Music Hath Charmins

This morning in The Home we were treated, as every Tuesday at breakfast, to the piano playing of Jeremy, a student from the Oregon School for the Blind. He is 16, with the "intelligence" of a 5-year-old. Yet he can learn a piano piece in 15 minutes or less, just by hearing it once. He is touted as a prodigy. Doesn't have the moves of "Ray" yet, but I think he's working on it.

Anyway, a reporter came from a Portland boob tube (wait a minute: You know what a boob tube is? A weathergirl with no hips) to record Jeremy for posteriors. (Yes, I know the difference between posterior and posterity. Posteriors are the ass-cracks who are going to watch the show on television.) After he finished recording Jeremy at work, he asked some of us for reaction to the whiz.

Me: "Lively."
Hazel Nutt (yes, indeed, her folks were filbert farmers): "I don't know how he does it."
Carolina Sister: "I"m so proud of him."
Maude Frickert (you remember Maude, from earlier in this epistle?): "I don't know why I have to sit here at breakfast and be abused by piano music. I hate piano music. Next thing you know they'll be running a drum and bugle corps through here, or bagpipers, or accordion players. You know what perfect pitch is? When you throw a banjo into the dumpster and it hits an accordion. Then it will be kazoos and mouth harps and ukeleles. When does it stop?"
Maude (running on, and on): "And not only that, but in December he never once played White Christmas. Why does everybody have it in for Bing Crosby?"

Dreaming and Other Cabbages

Today is the day the US of A observes Martin Luther King's birthday. All over the country people (including we at the Royal and Ancient Order of the Elderly) will be recalling his most famous speech:

"I had a wet dream...."

Or his most famous poem: "Old King Cole Slaw was..."

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I only did that because I had a lousy morning. Played a solitaire game of tic-tac-toe, and lost.

It IS tough to be old, but what's the alternative? Surveyed by me, 60 of the other 61 people here said the alternative is "death." Only my wife got the answer right. She said: "Youth."

The Elderly Get Screwed

At dinner, Gretchen Howcome was mulling the pending Martin Luther King/Presidents' Day holidays. She pointed out, in a pointy-nose way, that people who work here will get pay at 1 1/2 times their normal rate if they labor on those days.

Gretchen: "It's not fair" (and, yes, it's only been a few days since Maude had the same complaint, only about something else).
Me: "What not?"
Gretchen: "We inmates of the old folks home don't get the same opportunity. The government is screwing us again."
Me: "How is that?" (I should know better. I should let this die. But the words slipped out of my mouth, along with some bacon fat.)
Gretchen: "Well, since we don't work, we don't get a chance to get time and a half pay from Social Security on the holidays. We get paid by the month, but we live minute by minute. So we should get time and a half on holidays. Why can't our goddamn Congresspeople quit screwing us over? I've just about had it. I think I'll move to Canada. My drugs come from there, anyway."
Me: "If you're illegally importing drugs from Canada, you're not supporting Our President and The American Way."
Gretchen: "Who cares about that? I want what's fair. For screwing me over, they should pay me DOUBLE time on holidays. Geejus, they just don't understand what the upkeep is on a Mercedes."

Gimme That Old Time Religion

A lot of the old folks in this old folks home are into religion. There's Bible study on Wednesday, and a "church" service in the dining room at 4 p.m. Sunday. That's so the churchies can go to their regular church services at 11 a.m. Sunday, then double up here at 4 p.m. This moves them closer to the Right Hand.

They have lots of words they use over and over, and I've finally figured out what they mean. For instance:

"GLORY": First part of "Glory-osky, Sandy," in Orphan Annie strip.
"GOD": Charlton Heston's boss.
"PREACH": What Billy Graham does to the choir.
"JESUS": First part of a two-word epithet muttered when the home team fumbles.
"JESUS SAVES": But the bank keeps the interest.
"BE A BLESSING": Or, you could be a carpenter or a telemarketer.
"THY WILL BE DONE": What the lawyer is calling about.
"ONWARD CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS": Voters in the Red States are coming to bugger us in the Blue States.

It is tough to be an Old Believer.

It's a Rap

There's always something new about posting on blogspot. Today I can't find the font thingie. Oh, well...
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Activity Director: "Announcement: Today a band will be playing at 3 p.m. in the Fireplace Room."
Hulda Hearsay: "I hope it's not going to be any of that awful Saran Wrap music."
AD: "I think it's just plain Rap, Hulda."
Hulda: "I don't care if it's Plain Wrap, Fur Wrap, Saran Wrap or Christmas Wrap, I won't have it! Oh, that's a good idea. Have them play 'White Christmas'."
AD: "Christmas is 11 months away, Hulda."
Hulda: "What have you got against Bing Crosby?"

A Site to Behold

I forgot to tell you about the meaning of the title of this diary. When I was a kid in Central Oregon the guys in the neighborhood would go swimming in the irrigation canal. Drifting along in the water were these three-inch black things we all thought were snakes. Maybe they were, maybe not. Anyway, you could tie these things in knots and they would un-knot themselves in no time. I once took one home, tied it into 6 knots, and dumped it in a bucket of water. It unknotted itself, all 6!, in 15 minutes. I once tied one around my tallywhacker, and it got free in three minutes or so. Anyway, that was one of the happiest times of my life, hence the name of this thing.

But the title of this diary entry refers not to Old Horsetail Snake but to a weblog that is truly entertaining. It is written, the author says, by a waitress who works in a T&A bar by night, and is a student by day. She is a prolific writer, and funny as hell (although Red State voters might object to some of the language). Go see her at: www.thehotlibrarian.blogspot.com. (I don't know if she's really a hottie, but she must have good T&A.)

It Was No Cakewalk, After All

The other day the Activity Director decided we should have a cakewalk. She is good at thinking up juvenile activities for ancient people easily bored. She put 9 numbered slices of cardboard on the floor, in a circle, and asked people to assemble thereon. She said, "When the music starts, move around clockwise. When the music stops, we'll draw one number from a hat. The person at that number will win the prize, this lovely cake. So, let's begin."

Maude Frickert (it would be neat if that were her real name): "You can't get away with this."
Activity Director: "What this?"
Maude: "Susie Redwipe, there in the wheelchair, is covering two numbers. So she's got twice the chance of winning. It's not fair."
AD (keeping cool): "Well, I'll give everybody two numbers."
Maude: "But then Redwipe will have FOUR numbers. It isn't fair!"
AD (acidly): "Why don't we just play some music and give you the cake, Maude. Would that be okay?"
Maude: "Hell, no! I can't eat cake. I'm diabetic."
Redwipe (tremulously, fearing she might get hit): "Maude, why are you in the cakewalk?"
Maude: "Why, I just thought I would make it fun for everybody."

Careful Where You Sit

In this domiciliary (old folks' home), we assemble in the dining room for meals, three times a day. We each have an assigned place to sit. Newcomers are often nonplussed when told to "move out" when they sit in an old timer's chair. "Nobody told ME!" is a frequent comment of newcomers. With good reason. Few newcomers are told anything about how anything works. (Except, with the problems with the washers and dryers, where off-on switches are broken regularly and this costs the owners money, EVERYBODY is told not to break the switches. They get broken anyway.)

Going forward: One day Merle Hertz comes to breakfast to find Paul Certain in his chair. "Get out of my chair," Merle says. Paul says, "I thought I could sit anywhere." Merle says, "Maybe, but not here." Whereupon Merle grabs Paul by the scruff of the neck, lifts him and tosses him onto the floor.

This is pretty strange, but I try to make the best of it: "The winner and still champion is....", I exclaim to all assembled.

Nobody laughed. Humorless bunch. I think Merle had to spend 10 minutes in timeout. Which was okay with him, because breakfast was late. Again.
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