Hoss Knocks Off Another 'Meme'

My Australian buddy Ozguru has laid a meme on me. That's okay. I am really good at stuff involving me, and when it's a "double me" is when I really shine. He says, "Name five idiosyncracies."

My first reaction is, "How did he know I was peculiar?" My second reaction is, "How do I narrow down the list?"

1. I have all my original teeth. They are in a jar. Some have gold on them. Unfortunately, these teeth, being a second set, did not qualify for a visit from The Tooth Fairy, so the gold represents my entire estate. Maybe this isn't idiosyncratic.

2. I didn't have my first beer until I was 14. Most kids in the 1930's and 1940's had beer a lot sooner than that. And then I QUIT drinking beer until I was 15! This counts as being peculiar.

3. I have been married 5 times, twice to the same (present) wife. Women taste good. Mickey Rooney was married 8 times. He is more peculiar than I am.

4. I ALWAYS put on my left right left (?) sock first. But nowadays I don't wear socks, just slippers, everywhere I go. I think I will be cremated with my slippers on, because when I go, I want to be comfortable.

5. I am quick to make fun of pe0ple, like cripples, ethnic groups, accordion players, Jews, and diamond merchants because they are all Jews. Wait a minute..... I guess this is pretty normal, sort of The American Way. Maybe I better add one to the list just to cover my traces with Oz.

6 (provisional). Coconuts are what gags the maggot. You poor saps who struggle to get into a coconut, and then struggle to get the hull off the meat are the biggest time-wasters in history. Coconut meat is not edible. Coconut milk has more cholesterol than lard. Eat the husk if you want fiber. Coconut salesmen ought to be hung up by their coconuts. I may be peculiar, but I am not queer.

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My favorite word today is conflict. (N., not to reason why.) Def.: The difference between actresses at casting ("Pick me!") and flowers in the forest ("Pick her!").

Lot's Wife Was a Salty Old Dame

While I was engaged in the Summer/Autumn of Compliments to my b**gger buddies, I mentioned that I would need a topic for when I was all done with that. The votes are in. Out of 800 page visits, I got two votes for "When Salt Lake Wasn't So Salty," and one for "Rhode Island's Pourous Borders." Fortunately, those two subjects are practically identical. The wisdom in this piece is entirely attributable to Feelgood Haines, the history buff who lives in my Old Folks' Home and who knows every history ever histed.

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Feelgood: "Have you ever floated yourself in Great Salt Lake, Hoss? Probably not, as you are such a shut-in. But in case you get a chance to go floating, you might wanna think it over two or four times. See, the Salt Lake is full of piss."

Ol' Hoss: "Anybody know if it's going to be sunny today?"

Feelgood: "You dip. Salt don't evaporate. Listen, people can float right on top of Salt Lake because it's got so much salt in it. From Mormon piss. I can see by the look on your face you wanna know all about it."

Hoss: "I am pining away."

Feelgood: "So, when the Mormons came to Utah in the 1840's, they saw right away what a great tourist attraction the Great Salt Lake would be if people could float in it. And they needed tourists because they wanted to raise money to build a Nabertacle for this great choir they had. So these Mormons would go down and swim in the lake and relieve theyselves because they knowed there was a lot of salt in pee-pee. After a few years, one of them guys started floating because they had so much salt in the water, so they declared victory and got themselves an extra wife from Brigham Young."

Hoss: "I remember that."

Feelgood: "Then they put out a bumper sticker that said, 'Walk on the Water With Jesus When He Comes.' A side effect of this campaign was they got to add a lot of out-of-state baritones and altos to the choir. But that's not the best part."

Hoss: "I knew you'd get to it."

Feelgood: "The State of Rhode Island would fit inside the boundaries of the Great Salt Lake. So that has made Rhode Island's borders really pourous, because as you know, the salt pours when it rains and water seeps everywhere, like a fart in church. Lucky for Rhode Island, the Messicans don't know about these loose borders yet."

Feelgood: "I wonder if there is salt in Rhode Island piss? A lot of those assholes drink margaritas, don't they?"

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My favorite word today is bummer. N., same as terrible, horrible, no-good day. Def.: A nostalgic reminiscence about the good old days which, on reflection, weren't really that good.

I Am Giggly Because This Is So Over

(Yesterday's art work was supposed to be a stegosaurus. I couldn't tell, either.)

This, at last, will be the final post necessary to tell you how Ol' Hoss spends his day. Having run through my b**groll, everything else is pretty anticlimactic.

2:40 p.m. -- Research for favorite word of the day. Blatherskite comes to mind. Jamie Dawn suggests a word she invented, hitonius. I invent riotonius. How about "queen"? Def.: A guy proud to be called "His Hindness." Needs work.

3 p.m. -- HAPPY HOUR! I didn't really have two Young's Deluxe Double Chocolate Stouts this morning, Shelley. (Shelley is my No. 1 daughter who decided to read my piece. Shit.) Happy Hour is two sour mash bourbons/water/ice/vodka.

3:05-5 p.m. -- Research for tomorrow's piece. Scan my wife's Presbyterian Church Bulletin, find the minister making a strong case for Bible study in school:

He laments "the fact that significant percentages of the population know nothing of what is arguably one of the most foundational pieces of literature in the world. Huge numbers of people don't know, for instance, where phrases like 'East of Eden' and 'salt of the earth' originated, or who Abraham, Moses and David were. Culturally, we are all poorer for this biblical amnesia."

Well, "Amen" to that. I had to take "Bible History" in college. I had to take Advanced Biology, too, where they taught Evolution. This is "arguably" the best of all possible worlds.

Find another gem from the minister:

"It's not surprising that people who minister to kids are under great pressure simply to keep them entertained, to make church fun. Kind of like the time when Jesus preached his first sermon in his home synagogue and they responded by trying to kill him." Jews have more fun than anybody.

5::10-6 p.m. -- Write piece for tomorrow: "When Salt Lake Wasn't So Salty, Which Is Why Rhode Island's Borders Are So Pourous." Strongly emotional stuff. A two-hanky yarn.

6:01 p.m. -- Invent a slogan for Morton's Salt: "When It Rains, It Pourous."

6:02-9 p.m. -- Boring. Dinner, Pee, TV, Bed. Wake up shortly after midnight, which is the end of the day and the end of my "How I Spend My Day" story. Whether I went pee, and whether the seat was up or down, is no longer of any interest. Made sure the toilet paper roll was configured in the "over the top" mode, though.

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My favorite word of the day is butchery. N., not good news. Def.: What you know has happened when your stylist, combing out your hair, says, "It will grow out."

My Day Is Almost Over

This is the 50th or 60th installment of "How Hoss Spends His Day." Much of which is spent visiting almost 9 dozen b**ggers.

12:32 p.m. -- Five guys I haven't told you about yet. One is GENUINE Jim Turner, in Colorado, who has a whole passel of kids 6 years old and younger, including the new-born Colton(left). Jim has near-unrivaled powers of observation, and he shares them with us. And he occasionally hosts what is known as "The Genuine Bash," where folks talk with each other via Yahoo. The observational powers thing might also be applied to Canadian Paul Sveda, but in a different way. Paul is one of the best photogs you'll find on the Internet. One of his pictures is my desktop.

12:37 p.m. -- While I am out of the country I land in Australia, where I find my buddy OzGuru, a geek's geek with some cute "Fortunes of the Day" and who keeps me posted on his beloved Sydney Swans in an Australian football league who, in a major upset, just WON the Big League championship! Then there is Daniel Freedman, another Briton, whose computer skills keep him employed and who is keeping me posted on his battle with weight. He is over 16 stones!*

12:41 p.m. -- Just before lunch arrives, I go see Robert Seifert, who is recently married and who has changed his movie: He is back in school studying music, which he says he should have done a long time ago.

12:43 p.m. -- There are a few more that I am trying to figure out, including this one black guy. I will save those for another day. There is, though, one more person you should visit, Amanda Matilda, a working mother of two who says, "I might as well be married to a potted plant." Do Amanda, and Ol' Hoss, a favor and go give her a hug.

12:45 p.m. -- Lunch arrives. Luckily, so does daughter. Off to Dairy Queen.

1:30-2:30 p.m. -- Power nap. Dream that Oregon governor I worked for wants a speech on Arbor Day. Try to think up a theme. "Have you hugged your trees today?"

2:30 p.m. -- Check my site for comments. Five, so far: 1. "Like you say, pretty lame, Hoss." 2. "Somebody told me this was funny. When?" 3. "'Next B**g' can't be worse than this." 4. "None of your links work." 5. "What's the phone number of that cute babe in your last post?"

(Hoo boy, I love me some comments.)

2:35 p.m. -- I need a topic for tomorrow's post. How about this?

From my newspaper: "A mall-based retailer, Hot Topic, says its best-selling T-shirt is one boasting about Oregon: "Come for the fishing. Stay for the strip clubs." Nah.

From my former son-in-law: "Some people are like Slinkies. They're not real good for anything. But they still bring a smile to your face when you push them down the stairs." Hmmm. Has potential.

Zoot's Mom: "Be weird whenever you have the chance." YES!

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My favorite word today is eyesore. N., I know it when I see it. Def.: Three tons of strangely shaped bronze in the city park that a committee assured the City Council is "avant garde."

(*14 pounds to the stone, for the trigonometry challenged.)

Most of the Best of the Rest

For several days, Hoss has been telling how he spends his day. Some people my age (74 360/365ths) would just be going: "Got up, peed, ate, peed, watched TV, ate, napped, peed, watched TV, ate, went to bed. Got up to pee. Got back in bed." But I discovered you, so my day is lots more interesting than that. We are up to:

12:04 p.m. A new addition to my b**groll is Theresa, who is out of the projects, the first in her family to graduate from college, and who is writing a book. She might get some help from her twins:

Twin A: "This toothpaste tastes like butt."
Twin B: "How do you know what butt tastes like?"
Twin A: "Well, you were sitting on my head in Mom's tummy."

12:06 p.m. -- Also new is Tabor, a most interesting lady whose husband grows oysters in their back yard and who years back went fishing with Che Guevara and to dinner with Castro. But enough about him. Go find out about the amusing her and the new house she is building.

12:08 p.m. -- A professor at a London university, Huw, fascinated me with this illuminating sentence:

"Call me lazy, unromantic, a dour old pessimist, a socially inept hermit, but the stresses and strains of setting out with deliberate and purposeful womanising in mind leaves me nonplussed rather than excited as convention supposes it should." Don't let on that you know, but he since found a "special somebody." We'll see. But he sure can write. And so can Texas's Follow That Star, an engineer turned hairstylist who is an absolutely brilliant writer.

12:11 p.m. -- I head over to see (at right) Karla, whom I really appreciate because she tells stories on herself. Like the time she woke up drunk in an alley, or the time she raised maggots in the trunk of her car. Worth a visit, regularly. And so is my buddy Jana, who gave us her daughter's take on a song:

Daughter: "Let the rain fall down and bake my beans, let it wash away my celery."
Real Version: "Let the rain fall down and wake my dreams, let it wash away my sanity."

12:20 p.m. -- From there to the dirty words department. My buddy Autumn, over there in Minneapolis, is the ace of strong language. You remember George Carlin's "the 7 dirty words you can't say on radio"? You are warned, but, my goodness, she is funny. I calm down with some classic photographs by my buddy Deb, whose eye for beauty is superb. And I breath a sigh of relief that we have good people like Dr. Mike, who is down in Texas volunteering his time to help flood evacuees.

12:25 p.m. -- I gotta go see Portland's Betsy, who does a little bit of everything -- politics, whimsy, stories about her kids, who I think are 9 and 11 and who both have b**gs! And I visit with Inanna, who has great West Virginia stories but who is losing her grip on strong language. This is because, according to her son (age 9 or 10), "While you were sleeping I had doctors come in and do tests and you don't have any sailor blood."

(After I am done going through my b**roll, I will tell you how to write your Internet piece: "You sit at the keyboard, open a vein, and bleed.")

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My favorite word today is hope. Adj., smoke 'em if you got 'em. Def.: The desire of smokers that it is a particle of food lodged in their throat, not cancer, that is causing them to cough.

On the 7th (1st?) Day, Hoss Rested

Like Big Ernie, Hoss needs to rest now and again. So today, watch some pro football, or catch up on the reading in the posts below.

Tomorrow I will resume telling you how I spend my day. As if you wanted to know.

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My favorite phrase today is where Eagles fly. N., Philadelphia, maybe? Def.: Roadkill.

Can I Finish By Lunchtime?

Ol' Hoss has been telling you how he spends his day. You have seen that it is mostly spent drinking Pero, rootbeer and Double Chocolate Stout. Occasionally I visit some of the people on my b**groll, such as:

11:33 a.m. -- Maybe I should go see some people who are now and then ill. My buddy, Karen, down there in Utah, seems to take more pills than anybody should have to. But by God she's as chipper as there is, so good on her. She has lots of fun stuff on her site. Back in New York is Babs the Spazz, who regularly makes fun of her epilepsy, and why the hell not?

11:37 a.m. -- In North Carolina is Edgy Mama (Anne Fitten), a published author ("Storm Mountain") who is putting the finishing touches on a second novel, "Janus Watchers." This two-header here is Janus, one of the oldtimer Roman gods. If you're nice, Anne will send you a page from her latest, and you will be mesmerized.

11:39 a.m. -- Somebody's opening my door. It's Delna again. I live on the first floor, she on the second. She thinks the way to her room is through mine. One time I said, "Yes, this is the way. Come in and take the elevator." We get into the middle of my place, and I say, "Sonofabitch, somebody stole my elevator. Go take the one down the hall." But she still stops in to check now and then.

11:41 a.m. -- I better go to Texas to see Surfie. Poor Surfie. Her mother won't retire because she knows Surfie will see to the needs of her ailing Dad. But all in all, Surfie is very upbeat and has fun stories to tell. Stay in Texas to see the lady who is turning two houses into one, Candace. She and her husband are selling their rental house and their own home so they can move to North Carolina to be closer to family. Ain't that sweet? And so she is.

11:46 a.m. -- What Jade is going through I wouldn't wish on a dog. She had a serious operation on her arm/shoulder that put her out of b**g commission for a month. She's back. Go give Jade a pat on the back. But save some pity for Portland, Oregon's Victoria. She created a Fantasy Football League for 10 of her readers -- and she is in last place! Ho ho har de har har, Vicki. But don't pity Happy Feet. Her 10-year wedding anniversary is next month (right around the time of my birthdays) and she's going to go hear The Boss, Bruce Springsteen. Poor baby.

11:58 a.m. -- I don't just visit girls. I drop into Colorado to see my buddy MuzikDude, an interesting Colorado cuss who has some neat friends named "The Duckslayers" and "The Bunnybashers." These people are super-tight, so the dude is plenty rich, indeed. I peddle my way up to British Columbia to see Trucker Bob, a really swell guy with a gift of good gab. Then I come back to my hometown of Salem, Oregon, to see Frank, a.k.a. The Pirate. Listen, this guy is a storyteller. I cannot say anything much nicer than that.

Noon -- Oregon once had an attorney general named George Neuner, back in the unenlightened days. One day George announced: "I am going to give all of you an hour for lunch, instead of 30 minutes. You will honor this by calling this extra period 'A Neuner.'" Which turned out to be just right.

Still Noon -- Time for lunch. Tuna casserole or breaded pollock? Honey, do we still have some oatmeal cookies?

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My favorite word today is constiprated. Adj., good subject for a rant. Def.: Harangues about sphincter constriction.

I'm Not Bored; Are You?

See, what I forgot was that this was going to be "The Summer of Compliments," and I only complimented a few people. So in telling you how Ol' Hoss spends his day I am getting around to complimenting some of the other people. The problem is autumn has occurred. Tough bananas. As Ol' Hoss always says, "So it goes."

11 a.m. -- Still checking my b**g buddies. I go see my great pal Jamie Dawn.(Picture by her brilliant daughter, Courtney.) This stoic has had something like 18 throat surgeries and she is heaven-sent for maintaining a sense of humor. She has a female doctor who used to be a man. If you want to think evil thoughts about that, goodbye. So after I am done protecting people's privates, I drift over to Missouri to see Cara, who has been thrust into being a home-school Mom almost without warning. She is doing nicely, I think.

11:07 a.m. -- Hoo boy. Time for one of my favorite stops. This is at the home of J&J's Mom, there in Virginia. The other day her son says, "My penis fell off." Later he says, "No it didn't. I tricked you." I swiped this timely cartoon from my really, really good friend, Poopsie, of Dyersburg, TN. Poopsie is a farm-dwelling therapist hoping to find a Prince Charming, but it isn't life or death. She is one of my prize people. I leave there and zip up to Wisconsin to see Chris, who spent a week down South helping Katrina victims, only to be run off by Hurricane Rita.

11:13 a.m. -- It is well past noon there, so time for Ol' Hoss to crack another "Young's Luxury Double Chocolate Stout." Thish is going shwell, folksh.

11:14 a.m. -- I can see I am not going to get to mention everybody because some of them are new, and I can't characterize them yet. One more time: "So it goes." Time out to count up the votes for my proposed first piece next week: "How Grunion Got Their Name." Zero. Okay. Something on bestiality? Been there, done that (but not often!).

11:16 a.m. -- I love to tease my buddy Bonnie, because she went to that Veterinarian School (Cow College) called Michigan State. Bonnie is a terrific writer. Go there for some pretty words and pictures, and to be reminded to "call your mother." My Mom is long gone, so I go back to Tennessee to see Busy Mom, another brilliant lady who can get 20 comments with a one-sentence post. Busy Mom is now 41 years old!!

11:20 a.m. -- It dawns on me I have not visited the "strange people." One is the irreverent Blog Ho, who recently completed (finally) a two-page book. The other is equally irreverent, Arizona's Lightning Bug's Butt, who actually has a printed book on the market, "What's Shakin' in the Men's Room." I can't imagine what that might be.

11:25 a.m. -- Caregiver comes by to see what we want for lunch. Choices: Kilbasa and sauerkraut, or egg-potato casserole. We used to be able to walk to the Dairy Queen. Decide to just double up on oatmeal cookies.

11:26 a.m. -- Can't decide whether to visit the zany Esther Wilberforce-Packard or the school teacher Mamacita, whose URL is "weeklyscheiss." "Scheiss" is German for bullshit. She is fibbing. Her stuff is like silk, lustrous and well put together. I read both these sites because I can't resist zaniness or fine writing.

11:30 a.m. -- I am in awe of Raehan, a mother of two down in California who recently confided she will go for No.3. This lady can write about poop or Picasso with equal ease; you leave this site day after day saying to yourself, "That was wonderful. How does she do that?"

Say, that calls for some haiku:

I've had rich rewards.
I've gone from nutzos to soup,
And ended with poop.

(Hoo boy. Have I not called your name yet? Raise your hand and you can go potty. Seat up, please, if you're male.)

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My favorite phrase today is a dead duck. Adj., the end all to be all. Def.: What you are after your buddies tell you, "Try it, you're only young once."

Going and Going and Going and.....

I am on a roll, telling you how/where I spend my day. I am having a lot of fun talking about you. Usually among 103 people (number of writers I currently am visiting every day) you would think there would be some losers. Nope.

9:20 a.m. -- Have given wife breakfast. Look for something to nibble. Pop Tarts? Popcorn? Soda pop? Settle for beer touted to me by Angie, to whom I have referred before. She and her husband are fixing up a beautiful old house in Virginia, and awaiting the arrival of a newbie in about 135 days. The beer is "Young's Luxury Double Chocolate Stout." By prescription only.

9:25 a.m. -- I am a collector of clans. So I go off to visit the Pez bunch, whose matriarch is TanLucyPez (I also mentioned her two days ago). She is Lucy as in the Peanuts comic strip Lucy. All of these people have Pez-pal names. I am secretly in love with Lucy, who is in Pennsylvania, because she's so funny, and funny is the best. These are some of her kids: Acton Bell, also in Pennsy; the delightful dddragon, in Pennsy; and Aral, in Massachusetts. Aral is special to me. She is openly lesbian and is married. AND she plays goalie (!) for a ladies hockey team. I am very proud and fond of her.

9:40 a.m. -- Luxury Double Chocolate Stout on keyboard. Hair dryer begs for mercy. Reverse the flow on door-to-door salesman's $900 vacuum cleaner. "Z" is no longer stuck, but now can't use letter that always has "u" after it. Substitution: "The *uick and the Dead."

10 a.m. -- My next clan is based in Virginia, but The Cowgirl, pictured here (ain't she pretty?) cut the traces to move to Nashville because she wants a career in country music management. The head honcho in this group is Unga Chunga, still young enough to be a dynamite dancer and singer in community theater. Another daughter presides over one of my pet places to go, MommaK. Mom usually has some interesting *uestion for her visitors; everybody has a lot of fun. Another of the kids is... Wait a minute. Did you know the Internet went all the way to Okinawa? Sure you did because you drop in on my buddy Meredith, whose husband is stationed at a military post there. You can tell how wonderful Meredith must be by looking at the pictures of their 6-month-old son, Eli. And by reading her most interesting posts.

10:20 a.m. -- Cleaning lady has been here and gone. I go potty. Seat up this time.

10:22 a.m. -- Decide to read the newspaper. Katrina, Ophelia, budget deficit, balance-of-trade deficit, Social Security, Iraq war. All a war of words. I pass.

10:30 a.m. -- Second wind. I track down the Judys. One is the lady who is so kind by sending me humorous stuff all the time, Judy (kenju), over there in North Carolina. She sells wedding flowers; no funerals, thank you very much. I am in love with Judy, too. Down in Texas is Judy, who has two dreamboat children and who is deep into landscaping, including a banana bush. Did you know bananas would grow in Texas? Did you know the Internet went to Texas?

10:35 a.m. -- Also in Texas is a lady to whom I regularly send Internet kisses and hugs. This is because she's such a great writer, numbnuts! The fact that she's really pretty has nothing to do with it. This is Tisha Sharp, who recently lost her bedroom wall to a careening motorist. Someday Tisha will have a book, and you will buy it.

10:40 a.m. -- Most people go through life not knowing any Tammys. I got three: my niece; my Tammy Average Mom, a now stay-at-home-from-schoolteaching-Mom who lives up near Whitehorse; and my Tammy Boo, of Maine, one of two b**ggers who has visited me. Speaking of dogs (hee hee; Hoss 1, Tammy Boo 0), I visit my buddy Schnoodlepooh of Washington State, who has two dogs and who reminds us incessantly: "Baxter is a poodle, Bailey is a schnoodle."

10:50 a.m. -- Begin worrying about a topic for posts in the future. Possible themes (let me know which you like best): Amoeba Sex Life; When Salt Lake Wasn't So Salty; the Porous Borders of Rhode Island; How Grunion Got Their Name; the Commandment Moses Didn't Tell Us ("Thou Shalt Buy Low, Sell High").

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My favorite phrase today is so yesterday. Adj., teen speak. Def.: Your teenager's description of the new cellphone you bought yesterday which is passe' today.

You People Are Really a Lot of Fun

Ol' Hoss began yesterday telling you how he spends his day. This is more. Most of it is spent with you. It's really exciting because you get to watch me type fast. Mostly I am visiting other writers (now up to 103; added a guy yesterday).

7:05 a.m. I take a sip of Pero, the barley/rabbit doodoo concoction. No caffeine. Switch to root beer (Dad's). Caffeine sustains me while I walk to England to visit some of the men in my life. First is my buddy Shane, whose style of writing is mesmerizing. I drop in on my buddy Latigo Flint, "the greatest quickdraw the world has ever known" (and that you never heard of). He lives in the L.A. area, maybe with Luther Burbank, and where he hustles the Starbuck's waitress. He is guaranteed fun 4-5 times a week. In Kentucky, I visit a prison guard, Lejnd, who has fascinating stories about life in stir; a guy in St. Louis, Dave Morris, who can make money doing radio voiceovers because he has such a beautiful set of pipes (and a mighty fine wit in his b**g and in his comments to others); then off to Massachusetts to find The Pointmeister, Mike Ashley, a comic who finds some great stuff for my (your) amusement; a fella up in St. Paul, Chris Cope, a professional writer who speaks Welsh in his spare time to cover for the fact that he used to live in Fargo; Big Dave, a talented writer over in Michigan who is burdened by having his Daddy watching him like a hawk; and my longtime buddy Se7en, another template designer who did this very one for his chum Ol' Hoss. Se7en lives lived in New Orleans and his house got half-full of water.

7:25 a.m. -- Another potty run. Seat up, or down? Am in a hurry, so seat down. Cleaning lady comes today.

7:27 a.m. -- I do not forget my pal Debi over there in the Channel Island of Jersey. See it down there at the bottom? She is dynamite with "Jersey facts." Debi has four children and the typical travails. It is interesting to follow her mood swings. Through it all she maintains a nice, light touch. And her children are beautiful. Which puts me in the mood for another mother, Juno, a former New Yorker now plying the environs of Southern California. Juno is a superb story-teller. Almost always her tales do that upbeat thing at the end that brings you to laughter. Or tears.

7:35 a.m. -- Root beer on keyboard. Wife's hair dryer has fixed this before.... Now okay, except letter that comes at the end of the alphabet, which doesn't look at all like omega as in alpha to omega, sticks. Column will have to be written "a to y." Make note: "yen buddha."

7:55 a.m. -- Illinois is awake by now so I go see my buddy Lois Lane, whose name is not Lois Lane but let me tell you she is an ace reporter. She produces some of the best stuff you will ever get to read for free. Then I romp right over to Michigan where I can find Vicki Bennett, one of my bestest pals whom I would describe as brilliant. And so she is. She is the latest winner of "Blogging for Books," and one of the latest losers of a child to college. Another loser-to-college is my buddy Teacher Woman, up there in Washington State. Daughter Abby, whom I suspect is a Mensa candidate, just shipped off to college. Tears in Michigan and Washington. But they got a support group going; they'll be fine.

8:20 a.m. -- Wife calls from bedroom, wants to get up. Best part of my day.

(I am going to keep this up for awhile. I'm having a good time. And, no, I have not forgotten my two Judys, my two Tammys, my Jamie, Busy Mom, J&J's Mom, Tisha, the lady who went to a Cow College...)

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My favorite phrase today is holy shit. Adj., blessed by the Pope. Def.: Descriptive of a two-hour workload with one hour left to deadline. (Possible solution: Root beer on the keyboard.)

Such an Interesting Life I Lead

I think I will tell you about how I spend my day. I do not have any young children to put vomit on me, or to throw poop on the walls. I don't have any neighbors I can visit and write about because we're all deaf as posts. I am tethered to oxygen so I don't get stuck in traffic anymore. So all in all, I'd say I've got it better than you.

2:20 a.m. -- Go potty. I sit down on the toilet so I can find out if I raised the seat the last time I went. (I COULD test the seat with my hand, but that is not very sanitary. Sanitary is The American Way.)

6:30 a.m. -- Go potty. It is now light enough to see that I didn't raise the toilet seat when I must have gone potty a couple of hours ago and can't remember that I went. (This is a work in progress.)

6:35 a.m. -- Get dressed. All my sweatshirts have bumper slogans on the front, like "In the beginning there was nothing, which exploded." I am a fan of the Big Bang and the Gang Bang.

6:40 a.m. -- Publish my piece on the Internet. Go to my home page, then go back to my b**g page. This assures that I will get one hit today. I leave a comment: "Pretty lame, Hoss."

6:45 a.m. -- Whip up a cup of Pero. This is a coffee substitute made, I think, out of barley and rabbit shit. These are the only two things scientists know of that don't contain caffeine.

6:48 a.m. -- Start visiting my b**g buddies. Usually I start with Whizzer (Mandy), back there in Connecticut, who is both funny and pretty. Here's what she looks like. Fine and dandy, no? She has been looking for true love and lately maybe has found same. Good for her.

6:52 a.m. -- Then I chase down Zoot's Mom, in Tennessee. She's a cute writer although she talks about a lot of stuff I don't care about. But I have to keep visiting because I am trying to get next to her daughter, Miss Zoot, who is over there in Alabama. Missy is about 8 months pregnant, so it is not what you think, dirty-mouth. Missy makes a helluva template and I am keeping her on the hook in case I ever need a new one.

6:54 a.m. -- Start checking on b**ggers with weird
relatives/husbands/acquaintances. I go see my Florida buddy, Laura, who is hacked at Arlene, Dennis, Emily, Katrina, Ophelia, and now Rita, which are some of this year's hurricanes that have caused Florida to escape to the Rockies. Then I might head to Central Oregon, where I can find Annie, who has a married brother who is advertising for some more women to give him some loving. I check with Seshat, an incurable West Virginia romantic who is currently mired in some not-good stuff. I visit, in Pennsylvania, TanLucyPez, who has a strange brother-in-law who is quite free with opinions and sperm. I never fail to visit Christine, who is writing "100 Reasons Why I Hate My Husband." This poor soul is between a rock (her husband) and a hard place (her children). But she amuses the hell out of us.

(You know, this is going to take awhile. I hope you're in for the long haul.)

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My favorite word today is manhole. N., under cover. Def.: A device constructed to allow men to look up the dresses of women passing by.

My second favorite word today is 18-wheeler. N., catch you on the flip side. Def.: A device constructed to allow men to look down the dresses of women passing by.

This Will Make Sense, Eventually

A lot of people have been wondering how Ol' Hoss manages to read so many b**gs (102, now) and still have a normal life. I know it's not natural to read a lot of b**gs, but it's not bordering on bestiality, either.

I was never much into bestiality. Not many people are. I guess there was just this one guy in my high school, but nobody else. He was kind of a loner, so I don't know if this was an early cow-homo sapiens cloning experiment, or just a cow-homo deal. I don't know how it turned out. Some things just don't interest me.

Cloning might be a better deal for me than reincarnation, come to think of it. I was readin' my Reincarnation Monthly, and there was a sidebar about different ideas for keeping alive/coming back/not going. One of these ideas -- I think I told you about this before -- was where they scrape some cells offa your whang and then grow a New You in a test tube. I guess the cells gotta come off the whang because, to a man, that's his most important part. It's what a lot of guys think with.

Another idea -- and this drew a lot of favorable comment -- was Not Going. This is the cheapest alternative, since reincarnation is kind of tricky and involves hiring some Voodoo guys down in Haiti and like that. It seems the way you Don't Go is to keep on breathing. Since breathing is so natural -- not like bestiality at all -- this seems like a pretty simple way of Staying Alive.

So that's how I manage to read so many b**gs.

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The Washington Post has had its annual Mensa Invitational. Readers are asked to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. Here are some of the good ones:

Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
Hipatitis: Terminal coolness.
Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease.

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My favorite word today (courtesy of the Washington Post) is Karmageddon. N., plant you now, dig you later. Def.: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's, like, a serious bummer.

When Couples Diverge

DEAR DIARY:

"Saturday night I thought he was acting weird. I was shopping with my friend all day long, so I thought he was upset that I was a bit late getting home. He didn't seem to have much to say; he was very quiet and absent. I asked him what was wrong but he said 'Nothing.' I asked if he was upset about something, and he said it had nothing to do with me and not to worry.

"I told him I loved him. He simply smiled. I don't know why he didn't say, 'I love you too.' It seemed as if he wanted nothing to do with me anymore. He just sat around and watched TV. Finally I decided to go to bed, and about 10 minutes later he came to bed and to my surprise he responded to my caress and we made love, but I still felt that he was distracted.

"I was going to confront him about it, but he had fallen asleep. I don't know what to do. I'm almost sure his thoughts are with someone else. My life is a disaster."

HIS DIARY:

"Played a horrible game of golf today! Shot a 95 -- can't putt for crap.

"Got laid, though."

(This was laid on me by my buddy Whizzer.)

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My favorite word today is fakir. N., outsourced to India. Def.: You, when you pretend to like a work of art by a friend who knew you would like it when you don't.

Why Bananas Grow Upright*

Not everybody has a buddy in France, like I do. I suppose a lot of people in France have buddies in France, but I'm not in France; I'm in Oregon USA, 9 time zones to the West. So Anne and I don't have coffee very often.

But she did let me take her picture. That's she on the left. I don't know who that is on the right. But Miss Kentucky oughta be taught the difference between butt cracks.

My buddy Anne is a translator. You got some past participling you need done, or some sentences needin' to be parsed, in English or French or Esperanto, or you want some swearin' done in Arabic, you let her know. She will relocate if your English is bad, which it probably is. Go say heidy ho.

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Once again, it's Just Ask Judy time, when the oldster speaks:

The nice thing about being senile is you can hide your own Easter eggs.

The funeral home director goes up to the widow and says, "How old was your husband?" She: "He was 98, I'm 96." He: "Hardly worth going home, is it?"

My memory's not as sharp as it used to be. Also, my memory's not as sharp as it used to be.

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Up there in Centralia, which is in Washington State, there is the Scatter Creek Kennel and Training Services. This is Jim Elder's homemade sign advertising his business:

"When you train here, sit happens."

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My favorite word today is obscene. N., wash your mouth out. Def.: The turnout on the highway where the ob may be viewed.

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(*I don't know why bananas grow upright. I just needed a snappy title for this piece.)

Cheese With Mold Gets Mighty Old

The apartment my wife and live in is pretty small, less than 600 square feet. So even if we throw out a few pieces of paper we gain quite a bit of space to fit some more oxygen in. A guy can't get too much oxygen.

So here are some old love letters from my wife that I'm tossing:

"2 lbs. hamburger
"Collard greens
"Whatever kind of beer you like."

(You ever have a wife that put beer on your shopping list? I thought not. Mine is the best.)

"This is the fourth day we have not spoken to each other. The next time Ed McMahon calls for you, should I say anything?"

(A normal wife wouldn't a let on that Ed called the first time. Ain't she a peach?)

"You once said if I ever need anything, to let you know. I'm letting you know that I need a trip to Reno so I have sold your golf clubs and your bowling ball."

(How many wives would keep their husbands in the know like that? I ask you.)

I guess I need to give up cleaning for the day. Somehow, all the notepaper my wife uses gives me paper cuts.

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My newest buddy, Inanna, has sent me this little bit of news:

Not to be outdone by "Two-Buck Chuck" wine at Trader Joe's, WalMart is putting out some house brands to join the competition. Where they got a leg up is they can afford a lot of money for naming rights. There is this Arkansas professor of country marketing who says "the right name is important."

A marketing survey turned up the 10 most popular names for the wines WalMart will hustle in the $2-4 range:

10. Chateau Traileur Parc
9. White Trashfindel
8. Big Red Gulp
7. World Championship Riesling
6. NASCARbernet
5. Chef Boyardeaux
4. Peanut Noir
3. I Can't Believe It's Not Vinegar
2. Grape Expectorations
1. Nasti Spumante.

The beauty of WalMart wine is that it can be served with either white meat (possum) or red meat (squirrel). Go tell Inanna "thanks." And fish around over there till you find one of her West Virginia tales. She's a pistol.

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My favorite word today is never. Adj., no way. Def. When the temporary federal tax on telephone service will expire.

Erecting a Stack

My buddy Big Dave seems to think I am being a little too forward when I say I intend to "Make My Pile" before I kick the bucket. I said, "Maybe I could say 'Erect My Stack.'" Big Dave said that's even worse. What he wants me to do is announce that I am "A Geriatric Satirist Sub-Specializing in Fund-Raising Enterprises." I guess he wants me to sneak up on people, and I am okay with that.
So my latest Fund-Raising Enterprise designed to Make My Pile is nearly off the drawing board. It is, as you can guess, the latest thing in hearing aids.

See, lots of people won't wear hearing aids because they're embarrassed to admit they need hearing aids. So they go through life either smiling and nodding and saying "Just so," or they go through life saying "Huh?" Now, I know there are these little tiny hearing aids that only cost about $3,000 a pop that go way, way down in the ear canal and nobody can see 'em. But sometimes they get so far down toward the hammer-anvil-stirrup the hearing aid guy has to dig 'em out with a pick axe, and that's no good.

This somehow reminds me of the time there in the 14th Chapter of Mark where some goons of the high priest lopped off a servant's ear for no good reason, and that guy instantly became hard of hearing. Which is where Van Gogh got the idea.

Anyway, what's neat about my new hearing aid is that it don't look like a hearing aid. It looks like an ear. See here in this picture is how it works. You just slip my new ear-looking ear over your own ear and ta-da! you can hear mosquitoes making out in the back forty.

But right here is what's going to make it sell: When somebody blows into one of the Ol' Hoss Make My Pile Hearing Aid and Love Apparati, it will whisper back: "I'll follow you anywhere." This will save the wearer a lot of time in the romance department.

Franchise opportunities will be available, if you want to become a "Sub-Specialist."

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My favorite word today is lucky. Adj., cash me out. Def.: Descriptive of someone at the slot machine you just left.

Politicians Have More Fun Than Anybody

Now, then, if you think I am totally one-sided about politics, you're pretty close. Except if you remember Mary Jo Kopechne and sort of understand how I feel about that, well I come out pretty two-sided. It's just that I can't turn down cute pictures. Cleanup crews will probably look at this and say, "too bad."

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I am having a "borrow" day. Ol' Hoss will borrow from his buddies so he don't have to be brilliant all by hisself. According to my florist buddy back there in North Carolina, this is the record of a telephone exchange between a hotel guest and room service at an Asian hotel:

Room Service: "Morrin. Roon sirbees."

Guest: "Sorry. I thought I dialed room service."

Room Service: "Rye. Roon sirbees...morrin! Jewish to oddor sunteen?"

Guest: "Uh, yes...I'd like to order some bacon and eggs."

Room Service: "Ow july den?"

Guest: "What?"

Room Service: "Ow july den?...pryed, boyud, poochd?"

Guest: "Oh, the eggs! How do I like them? Sorry. Scrambled, please."

Room Service: "Ow july dee baykem? Crease?"

Guest: "Crisp will be fine."

Room Service: "An sahn toes?"

Guest: "What?"

Room Service: "An toes. July sahn toes?"

Guest: "I don't think so."

Room Service: "No? Judo wahn sahn toes?"

Guest: "I feel really bad about this but I don't know what 'judo wan sahn toes' means."

Room Service: "Toes! Toes! Why jew don juan toes? Ow bow Anglish moppin we bodder?"

Guest: "English muffin? I've got it! You were saying 'Toast.' Fine. Yes, an English muffin will be fine."

Room Service: "We bodder?"

Guest: "No. Just put the bodder on the side."

Room Service: "Copy?"

Guest: "Excuse me?"

Room Service: "Copy...tea...meel?"

Guest: "Yes. Coffee, please, and that's all."

Room Service: One minnie. Scramah egg, crease baykem, Anglish moppin we bodder on sigh and copy...rye?"

Guest: "Whatever you say."

Room Service: "Tenjewberrymuds."

Guest: "You're very welcome."

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My favorite word today is wind. N., perhaps a southeaster. Def.: The fake thing a mime will lean into if you'll give him your attention for as little as 5 seconds.

Scientists Say Creationism Is 'Too Bad'

This here is a picture of a separatist signpost in downtown Salem, Oregon. See, the State Capitol is on State Street, and the Methodist Church is at the intersection of State and Church. (A block to the west is High Street, and you can just imagine what goes on there.)

Bible belters don't have all the power in Oregon. But we have to admit that when it comes to arguing about Creationism vs. Evolution, the Bible thumpers have the best of the argument. See, they don't have to prove anything. You say, "What about the dinosaurs turning into birds?" You say, "Look how the flamingo has evolved into lawn ornaments." And they unburden themselves with the perfect response: "That's just the way it is."

But now Ol' Hoss has the poison pill. He puts "paid" to the creation cretinists:

There in the Bible it quotes Big Ernie as saying, in Genius, "Behold, I have given you every plant yielding seed that is on the surface of the earth..."

Okay, fine. So where did seedless watermelons come from? Huh? How about that!

So maybe Big Ernie is Luther Burbank in disguise? I think not. No, sorry, creationist lovers, the evidence is too overwhelming in favor of evolution. Seedless watermelons descended from monkeys, just like everything else.

Hoo boy, science is so simple when you know a lot of stuff, like I do.

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I got more goods from my pal in North Carolina, Judy (kenju). Per example:

A lot of folks can't understand how we came to have an oil shortage in our country. There is a simple answer: Nobody bothered to check the oil. We just didn't know we were getting low.

The reason for this is purely geographical. Our oil is located in Alaska, California, Coastal Florida, Coastal Louisiana, Kansas, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania and Texas.

Our dipsticks are located in Washington, D.C.

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Also:

Among the Top 5 Smart Answers for 2004:

As a man approached a flight attendant at the departure gate, he opened his trench coat and flashed her. She says, "Sir, I need to see your ticket, not your stub."

Ho, ho har de har har. Also:

A lady is picking through the frozen turkeys at the supermarket, and they were all pretty small. She says to the stock boy, "Do these turkeys get any bigger?" And he says, "No, ma'am, they're all dead."

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My favorite word today is zoo. N., a movie named Animal House. Def.: Where you take children to watch monkeys play with themselves.

Let's Play 'Doctor'

Back in the 1930's and 1940's, any old doctor could usually tell right off what was wrong with you. If you had a broken bone, he could generally spot tht right off. Same with measles and chicken pox. If your heart was beatin' like a jack hammer, he'd listen and say, "Mmmmmm." Which just goes to show that doctors back then knew just about everything there was to know about medicine.

Nowadays, doctors don't know shit. The proctology doctor might, but the eye-ear-nose-throat guy won't unless he has to clean off his shoe. See, today they all specialize in something or other. You get a weeny wart, you go to a weenyologist. You ask an osteopath what to do about that and he'd say, "Gee, I don't know. I'd give Big Ernie a heads up, if I was you."

You think the cardiac specialist is going to help you when you get the flu? Hell, no, he's probably got it himself and can't remember whether it's feed a cold, starve a fever, or the other way around. I love the Asian flu doctors. First of all, they're not all Asian. Second, they're always real free with their appointments because they know by the time you get to see them you'll have healed up,which gives them more time for golf.

In the 1930's and 1940's, I had a doctor who took out my tonsils, took out my appendix, set my broken arm, got me over the chicken pox and ear infections, yanked out my Mom's hyster, fixed my brother's crossed eyes, cured my Dad's broken back -- although never on Thursday, for that was Doctors' Day at the Bend Golf Club.

Honest. Thursday was designated "Doctors' Day." Some people began taking advantage of this, hanging around the bar, hoping to get a free diagnosis. And some people took umbrage about the doctors lolly-gagging when people were dyin' of shin splints, so they changed it to "Men's Day." Since there were no women doctors this did not prove to be an additional discrimination.

The docs I envy most are the psychiatrists. They get the inside dope from all these people who are always talking to Big Ernie God. Maybe someday I can get one of them to do an expose'. What we need to know, I'd say, is "Where is Heaven?" For all anybody knows for sure, it could be underground where all the preachers think Hell is. If that proved true, I bet scientists would put it in the category of "too bad."

Some of these people have really got balls, like those who went to school for a long time and get to be called Doctor Something or Other but don't know a thing about sticking fingers up buttholes. These have got doctorates in homo fruit fly technology and/or the estimated date that kudzu will advance on the Inuits. I know a doctorated oceanography guy who is busy estimating how high the oceans would be if the water wasn't full of sponges.

He says if they don't soon make it illegal to take sponges out of the ocean there'll be sharks swimming on Wall Street.

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My favorite phrase today is getting a little. Adj., of sex fiends. Def.: Sleeping with dwarfs.

Cloning Is Not for Amateurs

Meet a "salmelon." One of the creatures that result "When Cloning Goes Bad." Somebody (I can't figure out who) has deftly created about 30 of these odd things which appear in a slide show that will blow my mind, maybe yours too. Go to
Bad Clones to see the show. (Oh, and in case you care, there's another one of these figments at the bottom of this piece. And it's down there at the bottom even if you DON'T care.)

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More borrowing: My buddy The Ozguru told me this true story.

Mujibar wants to enter the country but is stopped by an Immigration Officer.

"You need to pass a test before you can enter the U.S.ofA.," says the official.

"OK," says Mujibar, "test I'm."

Immigration: "I want you to use yellow, pink and green in one sentence."

Mujibar (thinks, brightens): "Oh, yes. Here: The telephone goes green, green, green, and I pink it up, and I say, 'Yellow?'."

(Afterword: Mujibar is now living in your neighborhood and working at the Microsoft help desk.)

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The other day when I was writing about high school gangs I forget to remind you that diseases also got gangs. About the time I was pushing over privies my Mom's Mom had pulmonary failure and was dying of cancer some disease. Mom told me not to use the "C" word because it was some kind of nasty disease good people weren't supposed to get. This was in the early 1940's. Today, now, you got people almost braggin' about having sexually transmitted disease the AIDS.

Anyway, these diseases can really gang up on you -- strep throat, pneumonia, hepatitis and rigor mortis is a frequent combination, I guess.

Kind of reminds me of the old saying: "And now abideth Faith, Hope, and Love, but the greatest of these is Worms."

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My favorite word today is husband. N., Mr. Fixit. Def.: The person whose amateur plumbing technique has left air in the pipes so they will make that satisfying "clunk" when the water is turned off.

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And here is your basic orangufrog: