Grammiekins leads the way into a new Future

Right now it's voluntary, but I can foresee where it could become mandatory.

What I refer to is having your life 'cataloged' on the internet.

Grammie, of Awaiting Buddha, has basically dedicated a chunk of internet real estate to her first grandson. If she keeps it up, by the time young Owen is in high school, he will have gigabytes of material piled up completely documenting his life to that point.

Long before then Google will offer a service that compiles every fact and fiction written or videotaped about the subscriber. Biographers of the future will have no trouble dissecting the life of the person they chose to study; their problem will be winnowing through the over abundance of material.

And I can foresee where your Social Security Number will end with a ".cit" for the new citizen domain, where every bit of paperwork, every test, photo, medical report, x-ray, .wav file and sex tape will be archived. The micro-chip in the back of your neck will make sure that surveillance video gets copied to your .cit file. The final test of love will be to exchange passwords, so that each lover can rummage through the life of the other.

Can you imagine El Pistolero's biographers trying to pin down what El Pistolero meant to the 20th and 21st Centuries? I can see schools of thought arising regarding what one or another post 'meant.' And schisms will splinter the schools of thought and brother will turn against brother as El Pistolero's words and deeds are argued over.

How much of a post is a metaphor? Where does truth end and begging begin? Can a milkshake really just be a milkshake?

I, on the other hand, will be easily dismissed as a total slacker who succeeded so well that his life ended up the equivalent of soggy steamed rice. But it was all I ever wanted...

In 24 hours people will start making calls on their iPhones.

I won't be one of them. I never even got an iPod. I'm not in the iGeneration. It's that simple.

I thought it was way cool in one of their commercials where they showed an iPhone looking at YouTube video. But then I learned that that only works when you're at a wifi hot spot, which is fine if it's free. Which made me feel better because while my Blackberry does the 'net very well, it won't do videos from YouTube with just the phone connection. Just like the iPhone. I don't think the iPhone will do email as well as the Blackberry.

I bet iPhone 2.0 kicks butt. Since I'm already a Cingular/AT&T subscriber, maybe I'll get iPhone 3.0, the one with the sexual gratification button. Blackberry says they have no plans in that direction.

A lesson in conservation of self, disguised as a joke...

A big city lawyer went duck hunting in rural Tennessee. He shot a fat looking duck but it fell into a field on the other side of a fence. As the lawyer was climbing over the fence, an elderly farmer drove up on his tractor and asked him what he was doing.

The litigator responded, "I shot a duck and it fell in this field, and now
I'm going to retrieve it."

The old farmer replied, "This is my property, and so now the duck is my property."

The indignant lawyer said, "I am one of the best trial attorneys in the United States and, if you don't let me have that duck, I'll sue you and take you for everything you own."

The old farmer smiled and said, "Apparently, you don't know how we settle disagreements here in Tennessee. We settle small disagreements with the 'Three Kick
Rule.'"

The lawyer asked, "What's the 'Three Kick Rule'?"

The Farmer replied, "Well, because the dispute occurs on my land, I get to go first. I kick you three times and then you kick me three times and so on, back and forth until one of us gives up."

The attorney considered the matter and quickly decided that he could easily take the old codger. He agreed to abide by the local custom.

The old farmer slowly climbed down from the tractor and walked up to the attorney. His first kick planted the toe of his heavy steel-toed work boot into the lawyer's groin and dropped him to his knees. His second kick to the midriff sent the lawyer's last meal gushing from his mouth. The lawyer was on all fours when the farmer's third kick to his rear end, sent him face-first into a fresh cow pie.

The lawyer lay there basically dead to the world but then swam back up to semi-consciousness and summoning every bit of his will he managed to get to his feet.
Wiping his face with the arm of his jacket, he said, "Okay, you old fart, now it's my turn."

The old farmer grinned at the attorney and said, "Nah, I give up. You can have the duck."

Many Important Discoveries are just New Ways to Look at Something

Imagine you are stranded in a leafy, tranquil forest, by a babbling brook. You have no food, but thanks to the babbling brook, you won't die of thirst. But there is NO food available. Days pass. The ache of your empty stomach is a constant, unrelenting nag; thoughts of food assail your brain. You have never, EVER in your life been this hungry!

Suddenly a person walks into view and cheerily says, "Hello."

No one in the world is going to criticize you if rather than say, "Hello your ownself, dude" (or dudette), you instead demand to know if he or she has anything to eat. Nothing could be more reasonable, right?

Well, now you understand what's up with men and our sex drive.

You're welcome.

Where are you now, Joe DiMaggio . . .

I watched part of a tribute to Paul Simon last night and they showed him singing this in Yankee Stadium. (Oh, sure, I believe you were there that day...) For thirty years now people have been asking this question. How come no one answers it?

He's dead! Stop asking the frickin' question!

But it's being asked less and less as time goes on. One day people will have finally forgotten the question.

Once the human races learns how to cheat death, a lot of questions won't be asked and go unanswered.

Speaking of which try this one: "If all your friends refused to jump off a cliff would you refuse to not jump off that cliff, too?"

In other words, parents DO want conformity and running with the herd when it suits their plans!! So what does this tell you about parents?

Coexisting with People who don't want to coexist with You.

I know it's hard to believe that there are people out there who want you dead rather than have to share oxygen with you, but it's true.

There may come a time when these people, radical Islamo-fascists, your father-in-law, the waiter you left a dollar tip on a $22.50 lunch tab, et al., decide that there are better things to do than kill you. If we ever reach that point, there will be some things you'll need to know.

Many of the people who hate you wear explosive vests, carry guns/knives or drive ton and a half vehicles. If you bug them, they'll explode the vest, shot/stab you or run you down and marmalade you. So what you need to do is learn to leave them alone and tip better.

What would the IRS do to a man wearing an explosive vest if he refused to pay his taxes? Lots of things, I'm sure. But one thing they wouldn't do is confront him. Same with a cop who saw a man wearing an explosive vest urinating in public. If you had the state of mind necessary to put on an explosive vest, and you were one of, say, 20 million people wearing such vests, what do you think it would do to law and order? Because the ultimate leverage the State has is to deprive you of life or liberty. If you're willing to use your vest if you don't get your way, you're going to get your way a lot more than someone not wearing a vest. The ultimate 'F-U' to the State. You think you'd be pulled over for a traffic infraction if you had a big bumper sticker that said, "Warning, Driver is wearing an Explosive Vest"?

And what about a movement that enlisted people over 70 to put on such vests? They either get their way or they flip the switch on the detonator. Civil Disobedience to the max.

It wouldn't take long before being polite, and respecting your fellow man became the absolute order of the day.

Or maybe I should just get more sleep?

A play on words...

Heather Ivy was a tall, thin, pale blonde. With a bit more meat on her 5'11" frame, people would have used 'nordic' as a descriptive word. But thin as she was, 'gaunt' was a word often used by the more literate of the English majors in her life.

She was a junior at IOU Tech and this year she was an RA in her dorm, the most obvious benefit of which was that she had a private room and bath.

In November of the year, three months into the semester, she fell in love with a Puerto Rican kid who lived off campus. He was a Freshman, but older than her. She was all farm, he was all ghetto, but with a mind that understood and accepted the differences. He molded himself to fit what little yielding she had done to try to fit into what was still a strange world to her. People who knew them both could not understand how they had come to be a couple. But their 'understanding' was not something the couple needed and individually each one refused to answer any questions from the butt-inskies among their friends.

They hadn't been a couple long enough so Christmas Break wasn't a problem; each returned home alone. They emailed, IM'd and texted constantly. Her cell phone wouldn't take, send or receive photos, but she did have a digital camera and so they exhanged a number of photos, to the amusement of their respective families, none of whom gave the couple a snowball's chance in hell.

Back in school in January their 'coupleism' continued to prosper. And so did their academic endeavors: they both made Dean's list at the end of Spring Semester.

They'd held desultory talks now and again as the end of the semester approached, about what they would do, couple-wise, during the summer. He was honest and told her that the thought of spending time on a farm, where he couldn't make love to her whenever he wanted to, didn't appeal to him. And she was equally blunt in letting him know that being the only tall, skinny White girl in his barrio was equally unappealing. So they agreed to part for the Summer.

When the last school day was over, and they were packed and ready to depart, he held her in a final embrace. Their sadness was acute. She told him that the sadness was making her heart feel like a medicine ball inside her chest and it seemed to be trying to sink into her stomach. He put his hand over her heart (for a last quick feel) and told her that not seeing her for two and a half months was going to be the saddest thing he'd ever experienced.

And she asked him, "Will you still love me in the mourning?"

She had to finally explain her joke to him, writing it out, because he kept saying he'd miss her EVERY morning, AND the afternoons and evenings... When he finally got it, he laughed. But it was too late. She knew she'd just sown a seed of destruction and no weed killer in the world was going to prevent it from sprouting. What was going to grow from that seed would drive a wedge between them. Naive she might be, but she was farm girl practical and she figured he'd still be good to have around during her senior year, what with him being a great lay, and all. She was smiling when her taxi pulled away from the curb, leaving him standing by his bags, his eyes bright with moisture.

Breaking News v. Breaking Gossip

I have found a way to differentiate between what is news and what is gossip. Not that anyone in the modern media really seems to care, but I've never been deterred by the fact that something I had to say was not only pointless, but possibly in bad taste.

Like most tests, it's simple and very effective. Here's an example... Read the two declarative statements below. One of them is gossip and one is news:


Adolf Hitler ordered the invasion of Poland, which took place on August 31, 1939.

Adolf Hitler once tied a kite string to his penis, ran the string up under his shirt and out over his neck tie and told Eva Braun that if she pulled on it, he would yodel for her.

It's easy to see which one is news and which one is gossip. And here's the thing: old news is NEVER interesting, but old gossip is! None of us cares about what our grandparents went through during the Depression, but we're always interested in their stories about embarrassing moments involving nudity, sex, alcohol, or best of all, the three combined.

So when you're watching Cute Katie Couric, if what she is talking about would ALWAYS be interesting to hear about, it's gossip.

The Penis Diatribes

My wife is currently watching some type of Vagina Monologues presentation. As I sit and type, my back is to the TV, so I can only hear these various women find different things to say about their vaginas. Apparently the American Female has spent a lot of time in denial with regard to their vaginas.

And so we come to The Penis Diatribes. Or as they are called in East LA, Chupame la verga, chulita.

There will never be an audience who would pay to hear what a penis has to say. Why on earth did people pay money to hear women talk about their vaginas? I certainly never figured it out. Men would certainly never get near them if they, the vaginas, could talk.

Okay, apparently, from what I'm hearing behind, the majority of women don't like their vaginas! Their vaginas have been the cause of pain and rejection! Well, that wasn't the case on my watch! Another reason why my 300 million daily fellow travelers should have had more to say about how this world is run.

What kind of a world is this where there are so many women who don't delight in their vaginas.

Richard Condon & Carrie Fisher each wrote a book in praise of the vagina; he wrote The Vertical Smile and she wrote Surrender The Pink. More people should have read them.

I heard there's going to be a new show on cable, The Penis Whisperer

I met a man...

This is going to freak you out! It freaked me out and I was there watching it happen. You could see it coming so it wasn't like it totally caught me by surprise, like it is you. It's just the extreme unusualness that gets to you, because if you fit it into the context of WWII, it's not really that big a thing.

Okay, I believe I've mentioned that I was a Mormon Missionary. It was a long tme ago, in the 60s. Technically, I could be a grandfather to the little Missionaries out there today. I did my Mission in Mexico, in one of four territorial divisions the Church had set up. My territory included Mexico City. Mexico City is old and there are some very, very rich people there.

One day, in a very old section called Coyoacán my companion and I met a man. He didn't tell us his name. He invited us into his cozy home. It reeked of reclusive erudition. It was dark and there were books everywhere. I don't remember much of what was said. Remember, I was just 19, callow to a very alarming degree, and although I was a voracious reader, back then my preferred genre was science fiction. So when this gentleman started telling us about how foolish we were to talk for god and salvation, it was easy to feel smug and superior, what with my Companion and I possessing 'The Truth.' I do remember him telling us, calmly, almost dispassionately, that he had seen things that would convince the most stalwart of believers that god could not possibly exist. He looked fairly old. I never forgot that man, mostly because of the setting. I'd never that kind of stuffy, educated reclusiveness. And then there was his certainty.

Anyway, I men him today. He is 74, having been born in 1933. He now lives in San Bernardino. I would never have remembered him; I never 'developed' a picture of his face to go with the rest of the recollection of that brief event. I was painting addresses on curbs and as is often the case I had people coming out to talk to me. There's this thing about me: I don't speak "street Spanish." I was a Missionary who learned Spanish while a Missionary and then I took my minor in Spanish. I'm sure most Spanish-speakers realize there's something 'stuffy' about my Spanish be he was one of the very, very few who questioned it. So I explained. He asked where I'd served my Mission. I answered. He asked if I'd ever been in Coyoacán. I said I had. He asked what year. I answered. He asked me if remembered meeting him in his stuffy, reclusive study. I gave him a long look and said I did. We talked a lot more...

But to cut to the chase, the gentleman, Gustavo Merced de la Torre, is now living with his remaining relative, a nephew. And his claim to fame, or notoriety, is that he was the only Mexican to spend time in a Nazi Concentration Camp. Or as he corrected me, un Campo de Exterminación Nazi. Not a subtle difference.

He's never made a serious inquiry, but he spent all of WWII in Germany and never heard of any other of his fellow countrymen being there. So that's why he says he is the only Mexican survivor of the death camps.

See, I told you it was weird.

Crips 'n Bloods and the Spice Girls

I'm combining two posts. This could be a wave of the future, combining posts. It saves, time, money and energy, which will keep the planet from overheating before I die.

I searched for evidence that Crips and/or Bloods blog. Crips and Bloods are Black gangs. Legend has it that Crips was founded in South Central Los Angeles way back when... Members identified themselves by wearing a blue banadana on their persons. Legend goes on to say that leaders added a red bandana, to denote rank. Schisms occurred and before anyone could write a paper on it, the Bloods proclaimed their existence and took over sole use of the red bandana.

In searching for evidence of Crip or Blood blogs I found this sparkling burst of erudition: "yo id anint bout red or blue id's bout faimly most people who joyin crips or bloods been abused or sum din its like cristians and afyeist if you a cristian then other cristians your family if you and afiyist they your faimly id's like dat we only gots bad blood between us bescuse we dont agree on stuff same thing as religions but in sted of religion blood and crips are like familys gid it" You can't make this stuff up, you know...

I never did find any blogs but I bet one exists and I just have to keep looking. There has to be one or two introspective gangstas out there who have computers.

Which segue-ways us into the Spice Girls. There's no way to sugar coat this so I'll just blurt it out: I read this morning that they are going to get back together and go out on tour and stop global warming. They are going to bring to bear/bare their awesome power for good, but there will still be no nipple. There will be some name changes, to reflect where the girls are in their lives now:

Posh Spice she is totally satisfied with her life and wouldn't change a thing.

Smelly Spice she has liberated herself from the pedestrian cares of the world and from slavish conformity to 'regular world' rules.

Stealth Spice She doesn't want you to see her coming... or going.

Aspirin Spice If you've had too much to drink, play two songs then call her in the morning.

Trojan Spice There's more to her than meets the eye.

I could be wrong on some of these names. What have you heard?

Speaking Excrementially

I made this word up: Excrementially. Naturally I had help. I'm nothing by myself. I'm the first to admit it; admit one, non-smoking. A guy named Hilary had something to do with it. Go figure...

I trust that my faithy (not faithful, not faithless, just faithy) readers will be inspired to incorporate this handy word into their week day and weekend nights conversations. There will always be plenty of opportunities because excrement is all around us. It's going to be the adverb of the 21st Century. And you're in on the ground floor.

Lucky you!

How come hardly anyone fantasizes about being Mundane?

Mundaneness doesn't get a fair shake. But then, what does?

Mundaneness has it's time and place. Where would the music of the 60s have been if we hadn't been ready to settle for mundane? And Disco! Disco was all about being mundane!

See?

Mundane gets a bad rap because individually none of us wants to be mundane. Fine, individually you are certainly the cream of the crop, A number 1, the top of the heap.

So how come 72.5% of high school graduates can't read at a 12th grade level? How come we let 34,000 fellow Americans die in alcohol related traffic accidents? How come being part of a mob is preferred to being stalwart and somewhat alone? How come a whole bunch of things?

Maybe it's who we're listening to? Getting good grades is mundane. The two extremes to good grades are being a merit scholar or a flunk out. Not everyone can be a merit scholar. So in that light, being mundane is better than flunking out. But inner city kids and wannabe inner city kids don't see this.

So I'm saying if you can help one person achieve mundaneness instead of flunking out, you're doing a heck of a good thing.

Yours in C+, dreaming of a B-,

Bert H.G. Bananas

The Perfect Shape

You may have never considered this fact, but it's important, because it will help you as you consider the species you were born part of and what we've become.

Wind resistance... Ever swing a tennis racket with the head cover on? And then when you take off the cover, it's like 100 times easier to swing...(96.1 times easier to be exact, but the exact measurements aren't as important as the hyperbole). So wind resistance is a major factor when it comes to automobile fuel efficiency. The more aerodynamic a shape is, the more efficiently it cuts through the atmospere.

I'm sure you can grasp the logic in this statement: There is a perfect aerodynamic shape for a vehicle that has four wheels, one at each corner, and which has to carry humans in comfort and safety. Wind tunnel testing would make finding this perfect shape very easy.

And you can tell that automobile manuacturers kind of know this. But they won't accept this basic truth, so you have different designs. But if logic were followed, cars would all look exactly the same. What does it say about us that they don't?

Yes, the exact same thing that me being overweight says about being human. Thanks for pointing that out...

You Didn't Know I Left and Now I'm Back...

The rest of this song is probably very sad, so I'll just skip to the facts.

Big T, of T-Words, convinced my wife that it would be cool for me to go to Mesquite for five days of golf and reading novels. There were 18 of us, but I was the only who brought books. So after the golf I was lonely. But not bitter. Just lonely.

Mesquite, Nevada was founded by the Mormons. It's on the Virgin River, just a stone's throw from Bunkerville, Nevada. Bunkerville has been manufacturing Bunkers since 1884. Paula Bunker was manufactured there and she broke my heart. I refused to even look at signs mentioning Bunkerville. But the whole time I was there, I knew Bunkerville was mocking me, asking me how I like it now, and if Paula Bunker and what she did to me on Graduation Night was still at the heart of all my problems. I never said a word back, but Bunkerville knew that it had my number. I was the poster boy for "Ineffectual." Grammie asked about my pic... Look I'm ineffectual and you'll see me frowning at the camera.

Five days of golf, books and missing my wife. But on the plus side, I learned to play three card poker and pai gow poker. Luckily I had remembered blackjack and how to lose gracefully.

I did get on the computer one night, but not for long. I should have done some work but all I did was play in blog land.

Slim 'n Lift Supreme . . .

I am old enough to remember the girdle. Just barely. I dated one girl who wore a girdle on a date. As a gentleman, I shan't discuss how I know this. But I will tell you that I came to know that girdles could double as chastity belts.

And now, while watching this evening's replay of today's second round of the U.S. Open (a golf match...) there was a commercial featuring the above named product. They're not calling it a girdle but trust me, it's a girdle.

My take on why girdles left the fashion has to do with openness and honesty becoming important in interpersonal relations. If I'm right, what does it say about where we're going, interpersonally, that girdles are coming back?

The women featured in the ad are perhaps a bit lumpish. They have unhappy looks on their faces in their before shots. Then they are all smiles in the after shots, telling us how happy they are to look so slim and trim, "...without diet or exercise!"

In other words, by paying out a little money, they are happy to be "fooling" the world into thinking they did something that most of us find very difficult. But what about when the 'truth' comes out?

You Stink!

I took this photo at the Indian Hills Golf Course. Or as it's soon to be known, The Noble Native American Hills Golf course...

People with even minimal rural experience know the smell of a skunk. Imagine, if you will, the evolutionary process involved that resulted in the skunk, armed as he is with a smell so bad that no one will dare approach him. I wonder if there were any false steps by Mother Nature? Like some branch of the skunk family emitting a spray that smelled like hot bread and melted butter... Or the scent of a really great meat loaf... Mother Nature isn't always the sweetheart many make her out to be.

What's the worst smell you've encountered?

What were you up to when you ended up smelling so badly that no one would get near you and how long did it last?

You can't make this stuff up!

Paris Hilton, to Barbara Walters (I kid you not!):

Asked how her first days in jail were, Paris is quoted as saying, "I was severely depressed and felt as if I was in a cage." She felt as if she were in a cage!!! And here I was thinking she was a not all that bright... but she figured out, almost immediately, that being in jail is like being in a cage.

Asked how she is now that she was sent back to do more time, Paris said: "I used to act dumb. That act is no longer cute. Now, I would like to make a difference...God has given me this new chance."

Which means Paris knows she screwed up the old chance. How far do you think she'll go before the allure of being a trust baby reasserts itself? You think she'll hang around being 'normal' long enough to marry a poor guy from the other side of the tracks? Wouldn't that make wonderful press, if she fell in love and married a plumber or a mason or a dry wall installer? It could happen!

Standing Tall

I'm not saying I'm tall. 'Cuz I'm not. But at least I can say I'm tall enough to have kids. That's a good thing...

The standing tall is how I've decided to being this recounting of today's infamy. I am infamous for this sort of activity...

Unbeknownst to me, I put a pair of roomy (meaning the elastic died and went to saggy heaven) boxer shorts on this morning. So, clean, but old, which 50% of the time defines me!

Later in the morning, what with the 24 ounces of premium Diet Coke I'd consumed with my bangers & mash, I had to pee. So as I am always one to yield to my baser urges, I went.

And I go in and unzip and then spend a ludicrous amount of time trying to get in touch with myself. But with my boxer shorts on backwards, the effort was essentially futile.

I did this once before, in high school. And the memory came rushing back. Unlike this morning, when it happened in high school I was not alone. The young man standing to my right, George Wield, watched me struggling for maybe a minute and then made this offer... "Would it help if I could find you some tweezers?"

Okay, another quick memory: I'm working for a big company out at the east edge of Beverly Hills, where Wilshire and San Vicente come together. There's a place called Cathay Circle... It's the first time that I've had 'out of the closet' gay co-workers, which for a hick Mormon kid was a pretty big thing. I got teased outrageously by the gay guys because I'd get so embarrassed. So finally it happened that one of them had to go take a leak at the same time I did. I walked in behind him. Not wanting to seem a bigot, I took the urinal next to him. He'd already started peeing. As I was beginning the process involved in voiding one's bladder, he looked over at me (well, over and down) and said, "Well, helllooo there!" I zipped right back up and left.

Putting on a good face...

I have one of those faces that create an unfavorable first impression. I've learned to live with it... When I was growing up, I didn't have a choice, I was stuck with what I was born with. That's just the way it was, back in the old century.

But instead turning inward and becoming a loner, I let my inner brain-brew burble along and worked on getting people to laugh. My only tools were my whirly-gig eyes and my snappy patter. Because most people are starved for attention, with a little patience, I eventually get a chance to spin my eyes and snap my patter.

It's a bitch getting 'profiled,' of being judged by what people see in your face, clothing and body. But it's a reality in the real world. Well, at least until the plastic surgeons say your body is old enough...

Thank gawd for the internet, where you people are only judging me by my words! Thanks!

SUCKERS!

Take a Gratitude Pill . . .

If you tilt your head a little, and then put your glasses on upside down and squint, you could make out a case that anti-depressant medications are just "gratitude pills." There's a case to be made (as opposed to a maid to be chased) that 'depression' is just the inability to appreciate all you have. "Gratitude pills" open up the mind to counting one's blessings and reveling in them, no matter how humble they may be. A strong enough "gratitude pill" would allow you, as the Ebola virus dissolved your entire body into putrescent blob, to love the fact that you just took a breath... "Wow, I just took another breath! Isn't this wonderful?"

Maybe pharmaceutical science could even cut it so fine as to market "anti-comparison" pills! People taking such a wonder drug would not compare their Tojorama 32" flat screen HDTVs with the 60" Sony their neighbors just bought, thus cutting off 'depression' at its headwaters.

Right... I can see that all I did was turn around and look at the river flowing at me, rather than watching the river flow away from me.

But I'm grateful that my brain chemistry has me positioned not to give a rat's ass about the fact that my fly is open. In fact, I'm grateful it's open!

N'Dyah

N'Dyah is a name I came across today. But for the name I wouldn't have given her a second thought.

There should be a reality program devoted to punishing parents who come up with 'original' names. Viewers would listen to the junkie single mothers explain how they came up with the different names and then vote on the intensity and duration of the individual punishments. The kicker would be that each contestant would be afforded a hefty life insurance company so that if the voting warranted it, death would be a reward for the mis-named offspring.

Fair Haired Gamin with Pluck!

Hats off to KatDion, aka CelineRocket, for making fun of my use of the word 'pluck.'

Words that rhyme with 'naughty' words are fun to play with. Like pluck.

And then there are words that are spelled differently, but sound the same as the naughty word. I'll let you 'come' up with your own examples...

Remember the brouhaha that erupted when someone described a Black politician as 'niggardly?' Who was everyone pandering to? How come no one will pander for me?

I once masticated in public... I'll probably do it again, given the proper motivation.

Do you know exactly where your loins are? I used to beg women to gird my loins. But I always ended up having to gird them myself. And no,it's not the same as being a "hirdy-girdy" man.

There must be over a hundred Vietnamese restaurants in the United States with some variation of Phuc Yu in the name.

Hoisted by one's own petard sounds very lurid. It isn't. But anyone who wants to touch my petard has to get my permission first. But if you want to hoist it, just go ahead; no permission needed.

And how about all those euphemisms for words we can't use in polite society? Unless you're on Uranus, or I'm on mine, then you can go for it.

What an amazing bunch of silly primates we are! One great lament I have is that we gave up sitting around grooming each other and playing with our feces. Which makes me wonder, how come the Women's Auxiliary of the Plantagenet Anglican Church in Exile hasn't called for Monkey Houses to be equipped with toilets and toilet paper?

How come prostitutes don't accumulate and use the power at their disposals? They could have it all if they had the guts to go for it! What a bunch of pussies!

Fake Blogs of Famous People

There would probably be some amusement in faking a blog of a famous person. It might be a bit dicey to fake a blog of a living person, but the dead cannot sue for defamation of character. Apparently the dead are not felt to have much character...

Who would you like a fake a blog for? And isn't it a bit unfair that pretending to be Hitler would result in calumny heaped on your head? But people wouldn't say much if you faked being Stalin, and he killed just as many innocent people, if not more...

Okay, I've been sitting back on my three-legged milking stool, here in front of my laptop, which for convenience sake I keep on my wife's ironing board, and after a lot of careful pondering, I think I would like to fake a blog for Lee Harvey Oswald or Bruno Hauptmann. These guys are generally seen as losers and I'd be doing either one of them a favor by getting them a few laughs. And pleading 'my' innocence would give me a lot to work with.

Another 'fun' person whose blog could be humorously faked would be Paris Hilton. Right, she's not dead, but I wouldn't call what she does on a daily basis much in the way of a life. And besides, it just occurred to me that 'famous people' don't have the same libel and slander protections that we humble folk enjoy. For example, I could claim to be Paris Hilton blogging from the LA County Jail and talking about going down on anything that moved and she couldn't successfully sue me, whereas if I even hinted that El Pistolero was in any way a deviate, he could successfully sue me for every last gallon of curb paint I possessed or would ever possess! Oh, the humanity!

It now occurs to me that the person whom you 'fake blog' says a lot about you! So therefore I now tag the entire civilized blworld to respond, and then pass it along to blworlds on other planets.

My next post may or may not have to do with fake orgasms... Remember the first time you faked that you were faking it?

The Japanese way of Bushido v. The Bananas way of Bush-eato

The title has nothing to do with the content. I just needed to get that 'bush-eato' out of my system... you know how that can be: you come up with something that you just can't wait to use. Waiting was never one of my strong points. If I could have a nickel now, it didn't matter to me that a dollar would have been available later.

With regard to my recent vacational stint, I offer the following two photographs. First:

This is a building at the indian casino. The public is not allowed in this building, except in the days leading up to Halloween, when they have an "indian casino haunted house" in here.

Now this next photo shows me at one of my finest hours. Not that it shows me, but it shows what I'm capable of. So hey! maybe I'm not that far off with my pride in the bananas way of bush-eato, because I did eat the whole thing...

Someone left the cake out in the rain...

I'm back.

All I was doing was playing golf. And eating at an indian gaming casino buffet; one photo to come...

But what if I'd been out there plotting? As a plotter I bet I would excellent. I would have code words and recognition signals. Like the title of this blog. I'd walk up to a contact and say, "Someone left the cake out in the rain." And my contact would give the counter-sign, "Was it a pineapple upside down cake?" And then we'd exchange identical brief cases. All this would take place in a Starbucks in Duluth, with a view of the ore boats pulling in to dock.

But as I say, nothing like that happened this weekend. It was just: eat breakfast, play golf, eat lunch, play golf, shower, take the shuttle to the casino, eat, take the shuttle back to the suite, sleep, get up, eat breakfast, play golf, eat lunch, play golf, shower, take the shuttle to the casino, eat, take the shuttle back to the suite, sleep, get up, eat breakfast, play golf, go home, take a nap, eat dinner and then watch the Yankees pull out a miracle in Boston. Even the Dodgers won!

I'm happy to be home and back in touch with you band of brothers, you band of plucky brothers.