Feet on the Ottoman

As I advised y'all, I am taking Saturday and Sunday off, sort of, these days. Just a smidgeon here and there, to keep my hand in. This being Monday, here's the picture you get which I was supposed to publish Sunday, instead of the smart remarks I posted when I forgot to take Sunday off.

My niece visited the Old and In the Way Home yesterday (or some damn day), and I showed her some of the features I'm using, such as Bill Pay and Pay Pal.

She said: "My husband won't let me do any of that. He is a man of his time -- the 18th Century."

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My favorite phrase today is "Always lead; never lag." N., a major advance. Def.: Descriptive of the latest pharmaceutical advertised on TV and about which you are urged to ask your doctor, but for which there is no known disease.

The Dawn of 'The New Education'

Every day I read the b**gs of several teachers, all of whom are frustrated by their charges all the time at one time or another. I feel so sorry for 'em I can't let this go on any longer.

And, get this, there might be some money in it. Ol' Hoss always needs money. Here's my idea, on which I am getting a patent leather or Wilbur/Orville CopyWright:

Ol' Hoss's Fix the Education System, Solve the Immigration Problem, Ease the School Tax Burden, Give the Teachers Some Help Schematic. (This will probably be shortened some, to Ol' Hoss's Fixit Scheme.)

The difficulty these days is most kids don't wanna learn anything. The solution: Don't try to teach 'em anything but one thing. The ones who do want to learn are so few we could have a one-on-one student-to-teacher ratio, and be just as good off as we are now.

The "one thing"? How to use Google/Yahoo/Ask Jeeves.

Think of it. Almost everything a kid needs to know is in one of them search engines. What is 2 + 2? Ask Google. Where is Chad? Ask Yahoo. Where can I get some dope? Google it. How can I build a bomb? See: Google. Who were Ponce de Leon, Davy Crockett, James Madison, Jean Baptiste Charbonneau*? You got it, Jeeves.

Teach 'em Google and sweep 'em out the door. If they need a job, they can do all the stuff the Mexicans are here to do because the blacks won't do it because the poor white trash won't do it. (I KNOW all those are slurs, but it's what I read now and then and I figured I throw it in here because, just in case, there's some truth in it. Anyway, kids 14 and older can paint houses or pick lettuce just as well as immigrants, which we then won't need no more, so la de da to that.)

Kids can learn almost anything from Google. How to build a house, for instance. But this is best learned from watching somebody else build a house. Then they learn first-hand how many pounds of nails they need, for instance. And if they can't count, they can use their fingers and toes. In the Ozarks, they can get up to 22 pounds that way.

Do NOT, however, let these bozos build stairways in these houses. That takes talent they will never have. I know this husband of one of my teacher b**ggers who builds stairways. Mr. Stargazer, who belongs to Teacher Woman (Margaret), is an artist. To see examples, go here. Kids who don't wanna learn anything except how to best show off their butt-crack will never be able to do it. It would be dangerous to climb any stairs these illiterate bozos built.

Somebody might be thinkin': Wait a minute! You gotta be able to read to Google. Well, not everybody needs a readin' job. Somebody has to kill turkeys for Thanksgiving. Don't take no readin' skill to do that.

I could go on all day. But won't. Enjoy your newfound freedom, teachers. Glad to help out.

(*Son of Sacajawea, who is buried in Oregon, so I didn't need no damn Google.)

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My favorite word today is brake.N., an infernal machine. Def.: On the grocery cart you get is the one with the wheel that turns sideways, effectively halting you in mid-aisle.

Hoss Has the Day Off

In case there was still any doubt about whether the roll goes "over the top" or "under," this settles the debate. Glad, as usual, to help out.

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My favorite word today is chagrin. Adj., what a waste. Def. At the family reunion, yours is the only salad nobody eats.

Your Life Made Really Easy -- for a Price

I just got interviewed, via email, by the AARP monthly newsletter. They is doing a story about "older" b**ggers, and I got recommended. One of the questions was: "Do you have a favored topic, and what led you to focus on it?" I said, "My favorite topic is rutabagas, because nobody else was writing about rutabagas. Now, unfortunately, lots of people are. I might be shifting to a new topic: What do dung beetles do with their own dung?"

Nah, I didn't really say that. Wish I had.

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Listen, for a tenth of your monthly income would you like to live a life of ease? we can help each other out. You send me money, and I send you:

Ol' Hoss's Cradle to the Near-Grave Service. I'll be right up-front with you. I badly need money to pay for teeth implants. I have decided I don't want to be gumming my food in Heaven. Or in Hell, either. (I wonder which one of those places features "Shit on a Shingle" creamed chipped beef on toast?)

Here's the scam offer:

I am going to send you a cradle for your bedroom. (This is sort of Rube Goldbergian, but much better.) You can rent out the rest of the house, for you will never need it. Here's how it works:

Imagine a giant cradle hanging from your ceiling. It is a bed that you can move into a lot of shapes like those you see on paid-program TV. Changing positions is what you do for exercise. You can actually make it rock back and forth -- if that's good to get babies to sleep, think of what it will do for you.

There is a movable lid down where your nether regions (genitalia?) reside. Beneath that is a hose that carries your waste off to the potty, which is sensory-operated when it hosts a brown log (also will whisk away mustard color). A fine mist will arise out of your dump-hole and spray you spic and span, followed by a powerful fan that will tickle and dry your balls or honey-pot fanny. My magic lid to this depository will then reappear to rest your boners.

On each side of the bed will be one of those swinging trays like they use in dentists' offices, which you will use for brushing teeth, eating your breakfast and/or TV dinners, and as a reading stand/computer laptop office. Naturally you already have a remotely-operated TV/Stereo. Within reach will be your refrigerators for holding beer, which will be delivered by your local TV dinner/beer store, and your microwave oven.

Listen, there's a lot more to this. You probably have the gist, though: You never have to get out of bed. Beds and bidets are guaranteed. Cost is slightly higher for parties of three.

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My favorite word today is normal. Adj., how the world turns. Def.: Neighbors' description of the "regular guy" who is discovered to have killed 18 people.

Working Hard But Losing Ground

I wonder if they felt a positive jolt in the economic fortunes of Tennessee today at 6:15 a.m. when I took a slug of Jack Daniels. Taking a slug of Jack's at that time of day is called an eye opener, and I needed it to write my piece. It made me sleepy, though, so I took a nap instead. I had to dream up a topic, anyway.

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One of my buddies reminds me that I haven't told you lately about the old TV show, Hollywood Squares. These fine questions and answers are from the days when this game show's responses to the questions were spontaneous and riotonius, which means funnier than a riot. Peter Marshall was the emcee:

Pete: If you're going to make a parachute jump, at least how high should you be?
Charley Weaver: Three days of steady drinking should do it.

Pete: True or False: A pea can last as long as 5,000 years.
George Gobel: Boy, it sure seems that way sometimes.

Pete: You've been having trouble going to sleep. Are you probably a man or a woman?
Don Knotts: That's what's been keeping me awake.

Pete: According to Cosmopolitan, if you meet a stranger at a party and you think that he is attractive, is it okay to come out and ask him if he's married?
Rose Marie: No; wait until morning.

Pete: What are "Do it," "I can help," and "I can't get enough"?
George Gobel: I don't know, but it's coming from the next apartment.

Pete: Charley, you've decided to grow strawberries. Do you get any the first year?
Charley Weaver: Of course not. I'm too busy growing strawberries.

Pete: According to Ann Landers, is there anything wrong with getting into the habit of kissing a lot of people?
Charley Weaver: It got me out of the Army.

Pete: Jackie Gleason recently revealed that he firmly believes in them and has actually seen them on at least two occasions. What are they?
Charley Weaver: His feet.

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The other day, the people in the dining room fed us something called "Pasta Coronary." I guess they got people waiting for rooms.

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My favorite word today is pretend. Vb., on the cheap. Def.: You ask for samples at all the Farmer's Market booths on grounds you can't make up your mind, say "hmmmm," and walk out having had a free lunch.

All the Money Is in Groceries, Not Food

Most of you know that I will probably be dead in about a year or so, and you also know I can't afford it. See, I need to Make My Pile so something exotic can be done with my body. I am big on exotic, like lap dancing.

My current plan is to be shot in a time machine to some brave new world in the Andromeda Galaxy, if I cash in my chips in the summer. Otherwise I will go to the Southern Cross. But then when it gets to be summer up north I can move to Andromeda. I am a good candidate to be in favor of global warming. Warm is better than cold.

I think there is A Pile to be made selling groceries. You never want to be in a position of selling food. Food is what farmers sell, and they don't earn jack shit. Groceries is what Costco and Kroger and Safeway sell, and they make all the money -- and I want some of the action. So, get ready for:

Ol' Hoss's Fine Tomatoes and Firing Range. The word tomatoes implies, of course, that I will be selling lots of different stuff because everybody is confused about whether tomatoes is fruit or vegetable. So people will just assume that I also will be selling Wheaties and Smoked Trout.

The big money, of course, will be in cheese. I will have gorgonzola, camembert, liederkranz, those isoceles triangles of parmesan, brie -- no, wait, that's French. Screw the frogs; they peed all over our favorite war. So we'll have Edam instead. I think the Dutch might still like us. The big fun, though, will be in the Swiss Cheese Firing Range, where people will get to make their own holes in the cheese. I'll be providing beebee guns, for people who like a lot of little holes but don't want 'em done all at once; rifles for single-shot also, but that make bigger holes; and shotguns that can make various sized holes, because shot comes in various sizes. But they can do this quick and get on their way home for Happy Hour.

I will charge the same amount per pound of ammunition as for the cheese. But it will be worth it for people to get their own home-shot cheese, don't you think?

This idea might not make me wealthy right away, but I can always sell out to my buddy Bill Gates. He wants to own everything high-tech like this.

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My favorite word today is held. Vb., in the nick of time. Def.: A child examines what he left in the toilet that he needed to let go of 20 miles back and was told to "hold it."

All in the Timing

I am in the fireplace room of our Golden Oldies Home, when in comes Feelgood Haines. Feelgood is the guy who's our homegrown history buff, but today, he says, "I think you'd be interested in knowing some science stuff I been saving up"

Hoss: "No I wouldn't."

Feelgood: "You ain't interested in women?"

Hoss: "Well, yes, but..."

Feelgood: "This is about how you can remember gestation periods."

Hoss: "!!?"

Feelgood: "See, you use a memory crutch. Like, say, ROY G BIV gives you all the colors of the rainbow, from Red right down to Violet. Or that 'There's a rat in separate.' 'I before E except after C and a few other places.' So here's your memory aid about gestation periods:

"The elephant was saddled with two long years,
"When God was playing dirty tricks.
"The mouse got by with just three weeks,
"But woman was saddled with 36."

Hoss: "Why do I need to know this?"

Feelgood: "Elephants can live to be 80 years old because of that long gestatory period. Eighty-two if you count the way the Chinese do. Humans live to be a 100, but it's only because they get good medical care and we can force-feed 'em if we have to. Mice don't live long because they got a short gustatory and besides that they have to eat saccharine, butter, tobacco and shit like that."

Hoss: "But...?"

Feelgood: "What I ain't yet figured out is, When an elephant gets a cold, where does it get its chicken soup?"

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My favorite word today is secret. N., of initiations and such. Def.: What you promise to keep, but don't.

Olio, Miscellany, and Etc.

If you are new here, well, this is the kind of stuff you have to expect. Regular readers know they are going to be wigged out. (Click on picture to make bigger.)

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I have some bits and pieces to clean up. Awhile back I told you to go to Google, and type in your first name, followed by the word "needs," then read the descriptive material to find out what you need. Most of it you don't.

Angie told me to go to www.googlism.com to find a similar site. So I did. Here is some of what I got (using my real first name):

Lowell is aproximately 103. (Ok, I'll buy that.)
Lowell is even murkier. (Right on. Amazing.)

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My newest buddy, Ivy, had on her site what is, to me, a nifty paragraph:

"Today I was standing on the curb waiting for a bus. I looked down in the street and thought, 'Ah! There's a lucky penny.' Then it occurred to me....just how lucky can it be? It's been thrown down or dropped, deemed unworthy of someone's effort to reach down and pick it back up, obviously been run over by several cars....and now if it's really lucky, I'll pick it up and put it in my smelly shoe?"

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Special Prosecuting Attorney: "And is this little blue suit he was wearing at the time?"

Dubya: "Well, I guess so."

Or, Rove, doing his best imitation of Schulz on the old Stalag comedy show:

"I see nozzing...."

(Maybe this is unfair. George is doing the best he can. Which, of course, is the problem.)

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Answer: "Yes."

Question: By writers of political columns and b**gs: "Does this piece make my head look fat?"

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My favorite words today are taxi, coffee shop, airport, library. N., Oh, now I remember. Def.: Places you probably have left your laptop.

Halloweeen: Not Just for Kneebiters Anymore

No, sir. Us used-up people in The Home on the Range for the Aged get in on the Halloween business too. Maude Frickert said she found this picture on the Internet of her second ex-husband, and wanted to show it off. Georgia Smithers saw it and sent out for some orange and black makeup, since her window is right over the front entrance to this place.

We don't just bob for apples. Not all the time.

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My favorite word today is Spell-check. N., looks good to me. Def.: When you mistakenly type "death throws," this is the part of your computer that says, "Looks fine to me."

Now Saturday Gets Short Shrift, Too

I was lying in a snow bunker on a precipice high above a rock-strewn creek, penning with donned mittens my favorite word of the day. I felt movement below my gluteus maxima, and began crawling up the slope. The shoveled bunker in which I had been lying gave way, and tumbled a thousand feet below. I looked for my words, which would be frozen in time. There were no words, just rocks, snow, ice and boogers.

"I wonder," I said to no one, "if there's anything in Wikipedia."

(I did, indeed, have this dream. Boogers weren't in it, but they seem fitting because I am so flaky. Notice is given that BOTH Saturday and Sunday will become short shrift. Oh, not because of the dream; I can imagine anything, if I want. It's actually because I am needing more time to write and surf your stuff. I do not want to give up seeing what 100 or so of you have to say. So sue me.)

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My favorite word today, which will not be frozen in time, either, is disappears. Adj., you notice that? Def.: What happens to the new car smell when you drive out of the dealer's parking lot.

More Work on Bookworks

(Yesterday some of you clicked on B**g values in my piece to find that yours has a value of zero. That is probably incorrect. You may need to ask 2-3 times. I found, for instance, that Tan Lucy Pez got a value of zero, but on the third try I got a value of $31,049. So try, try again.)

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My pals Raehan and Born Fool have enlisted in National Novel Writing Month. All the participants will be trying to write a 50,000-word novel between Nov. 1 and Nov. 30. There are no prizes; a few of the books have actually been published. You can read about it and sign up here.

Now, I don't think I can do this, personally. But if I were going to do it, my title and first paragraph would be one of the following. I know they're all good, but let me know your favorite.

"Tales From the Shortbranch Saloon"

Clint Sidesaddle strolled into the Shortbranch Saloon, his face dripping wet. Lefty Noxious asked him, "It raining out there?" Clint replied, "No, I was drinkin' outta the horse trough. Say, you know if mosquito larva got any protein in 'em?" Other gunslingers in the bar go "Ewwwww!!" in unison, D-major flat. Clint, who had somehow morphed into Roy Orbison, began to sing, "Pretty woman, walkin' down the street, pretty woman..." He was staring straight at Julia Roberts, who was being approached by Leo Gorcey. Leo says to Julia, "Hi, honey, wanna shag?" Julia: "You're a little small," she said, shortly. "Nose to nose your toes would be in it; toes to toes your nose would be in it."

"Prince Hashberry of Twickenham Baronial Estate and Other Places"

"Mother, I don't think building a castle on the Great Plains was a good deal," Prince Hashberry said, plaintively. "Since you can see for miles, nobody can get close enough to attack so we could get written up like those guys at the Alamo or Almagordo, whatever." Mother, who lived in Chicago and and made her fortune in pork bellies, had gotten the little bastard to finally leave home by setting him up with a castle in Kansas. "Well, move," she said, movingly. Hashberry settled in the Texas Panhandle, and told his staff: "We're not in Kansas anymore." Hash later went mad as a hatter, but his staff had the makings of two motion pictures. Neither of them would be named "Tora, Tora, Tora."

"When We Were Dung"

Scarab was probably the best dung-roller that ever lived. Legions of dung beetles had come and gone, but Scarab was the finest. Scarab was getting old now, long in the fece and beetle-browed, as beetles are wont to do. Scarab often told his grandchildren, "I worked elephone dung, rabbit and deer pellets, cow plop, you name it. I would do anything to Make My Pile."

"Jesus Christ, the Early Years"

Synopsis: Little nothing (?) was known of most of Christ's early life until this book by Ol' Hoss the Housebroken. It has lately been discovered Christ spent his time working on white thread. He invented white sheets for Harey guys to wear in airports, white sheets for Arabian headwear, white sheets for Ku Klux Klan parades, and white sheets for ghosts to wear at Halloween. His brother James became Christ's marketing agent, and eventually got together enough loot to become a money-changer. They went broke when James underestimated the strength of the Japanese yen after World War II. Rated "R" for violence.

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My favorite word today is terror. N., the little brat. Def.: Student who makes you wonder why paddling wouldn't be better than Ritalin.

I'm in the Money -- If I Could Only Get It

Here's my first ad for McDonald's in my latest campaign to Make My Pile to finance my trip to Mars, where I will lie in suspended animation while awaiting the rest of you colonists.

Naturally, you will want to know why I am running ads. I was brought to this low state by something Pointmeister reminded me of. It's a site about B**g Values, which says the Old Horsetail Snake site is worth $126,456, and I want it. Apparently some bozo has a machine that calulates what everybody's site is worth, I assume for advertising purposes. You can click on that and find out your own site's value. It won't be much, knowing how lame your stuff is.

Its accuracy may be in question, though. When I checked a couple of months ago, my site was only worth $49,000, but now $126,000. It's questionable because the site owned by Michele Agnew, which gets over 800 hits on a three-day weekend is valued at $120,247. However, the famous "Dooce" has a site worth $3,116,260.

I been thinking about other advertising accounts I can get, based on stuff I have mentioned in my b**g:

--Bing Crosby Estate. I once had a piece where I talked about all the hate I can put on his song, "White Christmas." But, for money, I would be willing to put up an audio b**g where I will do the harmony to "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" while you sing "White Christmas."

--Budweiser. I probably can't make much offa this. Already Budweiser has 5 ads running every minute for all 6 or 7 billion people on earth. They may not need another one.

--Walmart. This outfit wants to compete with "Two-Buck Chuck Wines," and I anticipate a huge market boost for Wally World anytime I can mention "Grape Expectorations."

--The Holy Bible. Sales have slacked off in the Middle East. The Gideons have resorted to building motels in Iraq so they can have more bedside table drawers available for Bible placement. Surely Ol' Hoss can help here.

--Hearing Aids. Since I have invented a new hearing aid, which is an imitation ear fitted with implanted wires so's nobody knows you're wearing one, ads for this serve double duty. I am getting pretty sharp at the advertising game.

Okay, let's see what we got. Five accounts, 2 cents a day each, 30 hits a day = USD 3 per day = $90 (or so) a month. Diesel for my space engine costs $3.19 a gallon. All of a sudden, Mars looks pretty far away.

Maybe the columns I write here could churn out ads. Instead of writing about generic bananas, I could write about Chiquita Bananas, for instance. I love Jif Peanut Butter, which is a lot better than generic peanut butter. What do you think, Dear Reader? (Asking your readers a question is a guaranteed sure-fire hit getter.)

(Photo immediately above inspired by dddragon.)
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My favorite word today is Monday. N., a thrill a minute. Def.: An invention of a sadistic employer.

How to Become a Published Author

You've written something very imaginative, and you would like to get it published. What you do is send me...

No, wait. Send NOTHING except your manuscript -- or your previous rejection letters (more about that, below) -- to Lulu, and within two/three weeks you can say, "I are a published author."

Here is what one such author,
Lightning Bug's Butt, told me about the process:

"It's too good to be true. Publication is free! No catch. Just upload a file.

"Lulu prints on demand. They charge per book. You decide on the price....You never pay anything. If you sell a $12 book and it cost Lulu $8, you make 4 bucks. Lulu takes care of printing and shipping."

I know Bug's Butt has sold some copies of his book, "What's Shakin' in the Men's Room," because I bought one.

Another fella paid Lulu $90 bucks for 4 rolls of toilet paper. Printed on the paper are copies of some of the 17 rejections he has gotten for his sci-fi tome. "Take that, Ballantine Books, you buttwipes."

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Here is what I am thinking of sort of inventing to help Make My Pile, which I sore need to finance the eulogy I will buy off the Vatican Pope, Benedict, or the American Pope, Billy Graham. It is called Ol' Hoss's Bide-a-Wee Time Waster.

I make some shiny Bakelite hoops into the form of basketball baskets, and put one of them suck things on the end that you lick so it will stick to the wall. Then I make a dozen little balls, covered with your own family's official Scottish colors!

You may not be Scottish, but if you have enough money, you can get official plaid colors. The Scots are very good at diddling you out of your cash sorting out family colors. With your luck, yours are probably mustard and what can brown do for you, but, what the hell, they're official.

So, you pack this stuff up and shoot some buckets while you're busily not attending one of them boring seminars. And when some bozo asks, "Hey, Bubba, what you doing tonight?," you say, "I'm gonna play with my balls." Or: "I'm practicing shooting my balls over my shoulder."

When you get back to your room, you're still giggling while you write your check to Ol' Hoss.

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My favorite phrase today is gone native. Adj., the wild thing. Def.: Carefully hanging up the $45 Hawaiian shirt you bought on your Maui vacation and never wearing it again.

Get On the Bandwagon Time

I am sitting in the dining room of the Home for the Old Rock of Agers, staring down at my plate. I ask my pal, Malt Sharper, "Is this free-range rat?"

Malt: "No, that's squirrel. I shot a lot of those down in Texas."

Hoss: "No, what I mean is, Is it free-range rat, or rodent, which are the one and the same to me."

Malt: "Well, I never heard of no rat farms, so it probably is."

Hoss: "I have to know. I gotta watch my health, and if this ain't free-range rat, I ain't eatin' it. Let me tell you something, you being so much younger than me and probably don't know these things. You don't wanna eat no farmed nothing. Here's why:

"Chickens cooped up together get you the Avian Flu.
"Cattle cooped up together give you the Mad Cow disease.
"Buffalo cooped up get you the brucellosis.
"Venisons (deer?) get you the chronic wasting.
"Salmon in fish farms swim around all day in their own poo.

"Do you think that if your Momma swam around all day in poo you'd wanna breast feed? No, just as I thought."

Malt: "Is it really that bad?"

Hoss: "It's worse. I was in to WalMart the other day, and they said they probably won't be getting in any free-range bananas till 2007. I know whose fault it is, too, but I ain't gettin' into the blame game."

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My favorite phrase today is pushy broad. N., damn her soul. Def.: The person who came to the counter after you did but manages to get served first.

Beg? Borrow? STEAL!!

This has been swiped from
Marti. The nuns are all seated on bar stools with fake gams. They may make a habit of visiting this joint, until the monsignor finds out.

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Like me, some of you have been following the life and times of a brilliant writer, Follow That Star. He's the hairstylist seeking to move from the Texas heat to the Colorado cool. I don't inow why he is such a fine writer. As Rumsfeld says, there are known unknowns, and unknowns that we don't know we don't know. Anyway, here's a meme he invites us to tag ourselves with (proving that ending a sentence with a preposition makes perfect sense. To me.)

Fill in the blank:

Feeling ________ (no oats).

Listening to ________ (Grand Ol' Hee Haw).

Spent last night ________ (hitting all the lottery numbers).

Missing ________ (my lottery ticket).

Had breakfast of ________ (crow).

Thinking of ________ (improving my diet).

Would love to ________ (talk to you in person). (Awwwww...)

Planning to ________ (Make My Pile).

Working to ________ (Make My Pile without working).

Favorite time of day is ________ (Happy Hour).

Always wanted to play ________ (5-string banjo, with Raquel Welch on drums).

Dreaming of ________ (regular stools).

A dream comes true when ________ (after much exertion, the brown log drops).

Would like to French kiss ________ (Martha Stewart; hoo boy! "So," I would say, "how was that on a scale of one to ten, not counting that my tongue needs to be slightly more frilly?" And she would say, "They do much better in the women's prison.")

Really hate ________ (those little balls of chocolate wrapped so tightly in foil that by the time you get them open all you have left is chocolate under your fingernails).

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My favorite word today is extinct. N., the dog did it. Def.: What you make happen by cleaning up the dog poop from the carpet.

I Am Barely Here on Sunday, You See

(Click on picture to make bigger.)

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Calvin has lots of favorite words. My favorite word today is pain. N., derived from Tabasco. Def.: The giving of which is the only class required of dental hygienists.

You Know What the Scientists Say

The other day, here in beautiful Salem, Oregon, we had competing political parades. One was for Gay Pride, and the other was supporting George W. Bush. You know what a liberal I am, so I got right in there and participated.

I joined a bunch of sign carriers on one side of the street. Here's what my sign said:





A guy next to me said, "You fool. That's just what they want!"

Here's what his sign said:





So I'm on the wrong side of the street. Big deal.

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Three souls show up at the Pearly Gates. St. Peter says, "For the purpose of checking our tithing records, what was your annual salary?"

First soul says, "$200,000. I was a trial lawyer."
Second soul says, "$80,000. I was a realtor."
Third soul says, "$12,000. I was..."

St. Peter: "I know, I know. But what did you teach?"

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I know you got plenty of people on your b**groll, but please do me and yourself a favor and visit a new b**gger, Susan Ivy, but don't stand too close. Ivy is making a career out of goofing up: Falling downstairs in a restaurant; pulling a bra out of her purse at the grocery store and watching it flutter to the floor; wearing her shoes too loose and watching one precede her by half a block; peeing in her wet suit -- just before the instructor says, "Don't pee in your wet suit." This is what is known as a real person a Goober. Go see.

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My favorite word today is matey. N., walted Matilda. Def.: A word you use at your office for three days after your Australian vacation only to discover that everyone thinks you are an embarrassment.

A Stranger in Paradox

Sure you remember. That old joke about the pig?

A city guy visits a farmer and sees a pig with two front legs ambling about on a scooter, because his back legs were gone. The citified says, "What's this?"

The farmer says, "One time we had a fire, and that pig came in a woke us up. Saved our lives. You wouldn't wanna kill a good pig like that all at once."

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Susie says you go to Google, type in your name, followed by the word "needs" -- as, in my case, Gene needs. The descriptive material will yield you some nuggets, such as:

"Gene needs to be modified."
"Gene needs to be turned off."
"Gene needs to be inserted."
"Gene needs to take his brain out of his ass and look in the mirror."

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I think our Homeland Security colors need some updating, just because. What have we got, Yellow, Orange, Red? How about:

Yellow stripe: Time to chicken out.
Black and White stripe: We have strong convictions this time.
Mustard: Potential for gas in the subway system.
Purple: We are about to be royally hosed.

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My favorite word today is puzzler. Adj., thinking deep. Def.: Wondering whether the just-married Hollywood dream couple knows a position you don't.

Salmagundi*

I been thinkin' about what I want said at my funereal, you know where they do that elegy or euthenasia thing. I have been boning up on how George W. Bush says things, because he is the master at Engrish, and here is what I come up with so far.

"Going forward is in retrospect, because we are committed to the here and now, as well as yesterday." --Ol' Hoss, Salem, OR Old Folks' Home, 10/20/2005.

"History will be -- can be -- our judgment of it." --Ol' Hoss, Salem, OR Dumpee in Senior Citizen Place, 10/20/2005.

"There is a place for everyone -- immigrants, and people coming here from other countries, too -- and once everybody is in place this problem will commensurate our know-how if -- not impossible but easy -- we resolute it." --Ol' Hoss, Salem OR Old and in the Way Home, 10/20/2005.

Boy howdy, it is going to be hard to pick just one of these for the ethnic at my wake, which will be held at the Temple of the Rise and Shine.

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I am beginning to think fondly of global warming. Look on the bright side of hurricanes: 5 years, easy, of full employment for carpenters, roofers and stone masons.

Even better -- and you'll want to get in on this -- is pristine beach property and nudist colonies in the Arctic.

Time shares in Santa-land!

Hoss: "Where you spending the summer, Bubba?"

Bubba: "The heat in Newfoundland is terrible, anymore. Maude and I probably will be trailering up to the North Pole."

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My new buddy, Ivy, says her child opines that every time a fly lands somewhere it vomits. So Ivy wonders if the proverbial fly on the wall "is covertly listening to private conversations in the room, or just simply waiting for the queasiness to pass."

I am glad to know that Ol' Hoss does not have to do all the deep thinking.

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My favorite word today is embarrassment. Vb., who knew? Def.: The announcement by a sibling at your Mom's funeral that she liked you best, which you knew but pretended you didn't.

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* "2. A miscellaneous collection or mixture." --OED.

When Enza Took Over From Feelgood

(Some stories are better than others.)

I am stealing again. But it's for your own good. My buddy Miss Zoot sort of hid this story on her site. It is SO GOOD you need to know about it.

In 1998, Zoot's Mom had a roommate named Enza. They were both fanatic University of Tennessee football fans. Unexpectedly, Enza died right before a crucial Tennessee-Florida football game. Late in the game, with UT's season on the line, the Florida field goal kicker missed a chip shot that would have won the game for Florida.

Zoot's Mom screamed at her daughter: "Enza noogied the kicker! Enza noogied the kicker!!"

The University of Tennessee went on to claim the 1998 National Championship. Miss Zoot's conclusion: "If there is a God, He definitely put Enza in charge of NCAA football that year."

To me, Enza's "noogie" is a lot better than "the Shot Heard 'Round the World."

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By the by, Miss Zoot is 8 28/31 months "with child." Watch for the coming of the baby to be known as NikkiZ.

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The other day, Bonnie, the lady who graduated from the Michigan State University Ant Farm, wondered if Feelgood Haines might know how Geronimo got his name. Feelgood is the guy here in the Old Sinners' Home what knows all the history stuff.

Hoss: "Feelgood, you happen to know how Geronimo got his name?"

Feelgood: "Well, you got to think logical about it, Hoss."

Hoss: "Can't just spit it out, can you?"

Feelgood: "See, when they invented parachutes they needed to yell something on the way down that would tell them when to pull the ripcord, so they wouldn't be too early or too late. What they came up with at first was 'Don't go splat.'"

Hoss: "Splat?"

Feelgood: "Yeah. See, a lot of the parashooters was gettin' their riggin' caught on the rudder, and that was no good because when the plane landed these jumpers would go splat. So then somebody came up with supercalifragilisticexpealidocious. But that took a long time to say, and a lot of guys pulled the ripcord too late, and went splat."

Hoss: "Splat again, huh?"

Feelgood: "Yes. Then W.C. Fields, a noted drinker, came up with 'Jereboam,' and that proved to be just right. So ever after, when a guy jumped out of a plane with a parachute, he would yell 'Jereboam' before opening his 'chute."

Hoss: "I asked about Geronimo."

Feelgood: "Nah, that was some guy in Bill Cody's Wild West Show. What did you want to know about him?"

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My favorite word today is naturally. Adj., why me? Def.: When the airline pilot announces a scenic view is available, your seat is on the other side.