Wednesday, June 29, 2005


Throughout the Bush's four years-PLUS, the Trail of Tears impeachment talk has been evident and vehement but so what! Nobody seems to give a damn. Election scam. The murder of our Uncle Sam. The sneer from ear to ear of the Great I Am. It's forge ahead with Gorgeous George into a bottomless gorge from which there's no escape.

Everybody in the know knows you can't convict the crook who wrote the book on how to lie and cheat and steal and how to beat the rap. It's just a lot of crap to think Handler Commanders can't brand a scandal on-going and going on a lie created by the "other guy" who likes to cry "that slob, he stole my job."

Everybody knows it's true, but who can prove it. Can you? With the backing of the hacks and quacks, the stab in the backs, the Holy Right, with the help of Dems who lack the knack to fight the fight, how can the Bushites lose what they've already won? What's done ain't gonna be undone!

The Rulers of the Nasty Dynasty will buy or sell, they'll deal and steal, rob the votes, distort the quotes, do anything they illegally can to keep their man in the chair till 2008 when Jeb Bush who waits patiently easily becomes this nation's next Thief of State.


I went to the funeral of the inventor of the urinal, a man of unerring aim who rose to fame and great acclaim and made a splash seldom seen on the scene among visitors to the local latrine. He was really a standup guy who helped keep the men's room dry. To honor the man who aimed so high, pee on his grave as you go by.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005


If you believe that fantasy is more real than reality, that dreams seem real, perhaps by far they really are.

If you believe in popcorn clouds and ice cream skies and everybody wins first prize, that blind eyes see and death's a distant memory, if you thrill to fairy tales and dancing whales and honest scales that tell you what you weigh on a given day you'll be okay.

If you believe bugs and bees and monkeys live in trees and in a land free of disease and there's no such thing as calories or fattening cheese and snowflakes float on wintry breeze until they melt and join the seas, then you'll agree that you and me were meant to be a part of this reality.

If you surmise owls are wise and cows that moo are telling you their greatest joy is giving milk to girls and boys to sip with sugar cakes, if you know what it takes for bulls and bears to share their lairs and when chickens cluck and ducks go quack they're hungering for a midnight snack, that birds that fly high in the sky know why the angels cry and bees are composing melodies and symphonies you'll never want for luxuries.

There's so much to see, so much to hear, so much that soon will disappear that you should stop and reflect on what you expect will thrill you so. Before it's time to go back to the world we know, let's take a break to remember all our memories and thank the Lord who granted us the right to stay and enjoy this sunny, carefree day.


Aunt Acid was the meanest woman in town, a pill impossible to put down. I couldn't swallow the way she'd follow me around waiting to hear my belly growl, or listen to me burp when I slurped. When I passed gas she'd say I was low class.

Then Aunt Acid wed Al K. Seltzer and he was a perfect mate. Every time he ate his bride would decide to cook with expensive spices with prices that gave him indigestion. Just as a suggestion, Al K. said to A. A: "Let's seek a new way to cook." She said she would look. And she did.

If she found a new diet she'd ask him to try if it and if it agreed with his taste she'd proceed post-haste to no longer waste money on spices with peppery prices. She experimented and invented new dishes they both found delicious.

Now Aunt A. and Al K are both A-OK. Their past repast is passe for they've found a new way to eat and it can't be beat. True love is their meat. Their life is complete. They found health and harmony through gas-free cookery.


The slippery, slivery snake, you see, is quite unlike both you and me. It has no feet to walk about, no voice to scream and yell and shout. On close inspection it appears it has no nose or teeth or ears. It does have one thing and it is this: It can't kiss but it can hiss. It has no arms or legs or thighs, yet it can grow to any size. But one thing even snakes must do that makes them just like me and you. They must eat occasionally or their belly growls incessantly.

There was this very spacial snake. His reptile buddies called him Jake. He woke one morning in a hungry mood and went in search of favorite food, a squirrel, a rabbit, a juicy rat. He found none of this, none of that. He hunted, but to no avail. then he spied his tempting tail. Said he: "I'll nibble this for now and later find some jungle chow." Jake the snake he took a bite, then found to his extreme delight he liked his own posterior, found other foods inferior, But with each bite he took, you see, he grew shorter instantly. Snake meat, this he didn't know, has calories galore and so before he knew what was the matter Jake the Snake was short but fatter,

The monkey and the kangaroo, the hyena and the hippo, too, all came by and said, "For goodness sake, look at that roly poly snake!" So Jake the snake of midget size, to escape the stares of laughing eyes, waddled sadly to his pit. And this should be the end of it.

Friday, June 24, 2005


The world needs more intercourse, not the kind you think, of course, but intercourse of probing minds, of intellects who can reflect mutual respect that both expect on subjects and in printed texts by learned men (and women, too) far beyond what me and you could comprehend.

Language aside, whether debated or translated, written or spoken doesn't matter, even haphazard chit-chatter can cover a lot of what is what and what is not. But recorded words are by far the best. They stand the test of time and tide and have nothing to hide once in ink. What the wise think, droll or clever, goes on forever. In fact, what would we do without Shakespeare, Paul Revere or George Bush in an election year?

Some have things to say and say it. Others have little to say and DeLay it.

Whether it's political, hypocritical or a-typical, once said it should be read. For better or for verse, poetry or prose, by amateurs or pros, otherwise those listed will never have existed once they are dead. Or so it is said.

Where would trivia be today, the game empty minds love to play, if what idiots say went in one ear and out the other if nobody bothered to publish books about these kooks?

And then here were giants of note who coined quotes enough to sink a boat that will live in history for centuries long after we are gone. What they had to say will go on and on. FDR on war and fear. Truman on the "buck stops here." King on his famous dream. Dubya on his scheme to send the world to kingdom-come.

Some smart, some dumb. Some so so from long ago. Some still to come. All to be recorded on the printed page, posted on the internet, chiseled in stone or stored in miles and miles of dusty files. At least they're there, no doubt, if researchers care to dig them out.

One last word or two to those who say words worth repeating at a meeting or in fleeting conversation, keep it clean, but keep it brief, say what you meant, express your belief. And hope someday someone will say, you said this or you said that but what that nit-wit said was just a lot of you know what,


A Republican racehorse of note
Ate hay, apples and oats.
But his treat for the day
Was when he put away
A box of Democrat votes.

A billygoat sailing a boat
Once ended up in a moat
Which was shark infested,
But as he was digested
He wrote his last word: "Unquote."

A blogger sending a post
Burned the breakfast toast.
He didn't give a damn,
Just added some jam
And served the toast to his host.


Where have all the patriots gone who backed the Iraq war we never won, but claimed mission done? We failed to find the reasons why so many had to die and continue to die until this day.

We killed and maimed the enemy. Our leaders said they knew and we believed true, insane Hussein would unleash horrific weaponry on we. the enemy. We were the infidel from hell he would repel with atom bombs and poison gas and germs and even more for that's what war was all about.

Their weapons would be fund and destroyed and oppressed Iraqi masses would be overjoyed. But when the bombs stopped rumbling down and the buildings stopped tumbling down there was no satisfaction for our action, gratification or elation for what we'd done to their nation. And as so-called peace came to their land, blood still was being poured into their desert sand.

They cried for those who died and those with bodies blown to bits, but that was not the worst of it. The lunacies, the monstrosities, the atrocities were etched into their memories. No matter how hard they tried, these visions of life denied would live with them until they died. Because the war was unjustified.

It didn't have to be this way. A week, a month, another day. More pressure, more diplomacy. What a world this could be if men fought less and reasoned more. No more war! No more war!

Monday, June 20, 2005


George Porgy, oh what a guy.
Waged a war so the world would die.
And as the bombs fell overhead
And everybody else was dead
Dubya said with smirk and sigh:
"What a smarty schmuck was I?"


Hi diddle diddle diddle Dubya did fiddle
And bombs went boom-boom-boom!
Now it's all over. We're buried in clover
And there's no more room in the tomb.
Bodies stacked high as clouds in the sky.
Blood's running free in a stream.
Life is all done. Ain't it been fun!
Was it real or really a dream?


It's part of the political game. It will always be the same. The president's advisors make decisions after Rose Garden revisions, Then the Commander in Grief states his indecision, followed by opposition positions. It's all chewed and reviewed by pundits in the latest editions of The Times and Post and newspapers of note from coast to coast,

When it's said and done no one takes the blame, everybody takes the credit. Comments are subject to edit. Once quotes are noted by the liars, the deniers, the pacifiers, by the users, the accusers, the weasel-word abusers, the born losers and assorted boozers they're deemed rotten and forgotten.

He said it, not me. "--- "That explanation doesn't reflect my legislation." --- "My exhortation requires an explanation." --- "I was on vacation when opponents and proponents decided to take the voters for a ride." --- "It's a sin how those on the Out and those on the IN, in their attempts to win, both pro and con, approved all these goings on." --- "I'm amused that both sides were so confused they didn't know what they were fighting for, didn't know the score and, what's more, didn't care that much about it to doubt its duplicity or how it would float with the voters of their constituency,"

So it goes, the slick rhetoric of the politic, No shame, no blame. They all claim praise as days go by. They disavow who said it, who done it. In the end both sides say they won it.Voters note: Don't dismay. Have no fear. Next year will soon be here.And after everybody has had their say, they'll wind up voting the other way.

Thursday, June 16, 2005


I had a friend on whom I could depend, who would stand by me to the end, who cared for me and shared with me the good, the bad, when I was sad or glad, when I was reflective or introspective he'd listen to me comfort me.

Sometimes in the middle of the night I'd awaken in fright from an unexplained nightmare. He'd be there, turn on the light and scare away the monsters dancing in the midnight air. "You see," he'd say, "there's no one there. Go back to sleep but first kiss me good night and hug your Teddy Bear."

I remember now that dad is dead everything he did and said. I can feel his warm hand on my head. I can smell the tobacco that was always part of the clothes he wore. I remember the time his pipe fell from his mouth and landed on the floor and there were ashes everywhere. I heard him stamping out the sparks and, in the dark, I heard his laugh. "No damage done, my son, " he said as he swept the ashes off the floor, slowly walked from my room and closed the door.

I remember so much about my dad. All the good times that we had The talks, the walks to the ice cream store, the fancy clothes he always wore, going to the ballpark, keeping score, helping him sell at his clothing store, birthdays, my bar mitzvah, the jokes he told, most were old but that's what older dads are for, the day I left to go to war---all this and so much more.

Most of all I can't forget how I cried the day dad died. I could not hide the tears I shed. I know he's dead but he's still there to comfort me, He lives on in my memory. This all happened long ago. I still miss him so. He was the best friend I ever had. He was my dad.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005


Has the Republican Right nudged us bit by bit into the Twilight of Democracy? Did anyone suspect it with the so-called selection/election of an insurrection-driven president with dreams and schemes to rip the seams of the fabric of our nation? To tear apart the things that were the heart of our free and unfettered society.

Or did it start when baby Dubya was three sitting on his father's knee learning about the evils of democracy from family and the GOP? Was that how the leader we have now formed his views he would use his passion to refashion this land into what his vision thing envisioned it to be if he was sent to Washington as our precident-setting president?

Although we probably will never know the truth, neither does he. The brainwash of Bush was part of the legacy of the Texas dynasty that began long before he ever ran as a puppet of the GOP. As you'll recall, the smarty party started small to take control while the sleeping were as blind as bats.

From school boards to boardrooms of government and industry, slowly the GOP asserted its authority, from local seats of power to state posts where it mattered most. They forged a political machine like one seldom seen in a free democracy.

Then came Bush, born loser, abuser and user of the power he inherited but never merited who, by hook and crook, took the vote that he had not and you know what was the result, an insult to our liberty.

But that "winning" was just the beginning. After raping most historic rights, working to pack the courts with his sort of judicial officials, emerging victorious in the face of a complacent left bereft of leadership, he's on a roll to win the soul and take control of the whole enchilada.

And now I'll make this projection: who will Republicans run at the next election? Florida Gov. Jeb Bush, of course.


What's going to happen to the U. S. A. with a president giving our freedoms away? Committing our sons and daughters to slaughter with a smirk and a sneer and a twisted smile and spending our money like it never existed or is going out of style. Creating enemies at every turn. When oh when will America learn?

Bush became our precedent-setting president and it was evident he meant to annoy us and destroy us. He took control of the nation he stole and went on a roll to put us in a hole. If that was his goal, the Texas dude indeed succeeded.

When will this one man wrecking crew drop the other shoe and do what no man in his right mind would do, dare to mess with Medicare, turn social security into an insecurity, bit by bit destroy benefits.

The day of payoff time grows nigh when the groups put up the cash to buy Big Ears four more years are coming to the discount store seeking gifts galore. The pay is go hard on the gay community, give DeLay and others like him immunity, distortion of abortion laws, deliver to the mighty right what they hoped might become theirs by right.

If you wonder what will millions, even billions buy, stick around and you'll soon learn. Big business has the bucks to burn. And the dough will flow to those who show their loyalty to royalty---King George the First, by far the worst leader of the payback pack. That is, unless you're a Republican Party hack.


We cannot know a soldier's last thought after the fatal shot has been fired, to what heights he aspired, what really mattered moments before his life was shattered and his blood was splattered on this foreign ground, his fright as the angel of death, bathed in holy light. appeared in the night of his demise and ascendancy into the skies where God awaited patiently to set him free of earthly pain and misery.

We can not know who he will leave to grieve his passing from this world to the next, what his soul will expect, what complexities will cause a confrontation with his life of memories.

We cannot know. So much will die with this GI who rises to the holy sky with just one unanswered question: Why?

And as his name is deleted from the list of the living waiting to be defeated others still must face the wrath and walk the path the dead once tread and ask themselves as bullets fly ''Will I be the next to die?"

Friday, June 10, 2005


My daughter is gay and I am straight, but that doesn't negate our mutual love and respect. I believe it was fate that this was to be as she met her mate some 20 years ago and their love for each other continues to grow.

And I have grown to love her lover as I love my own. She is family to me as they are to one another. In fact, they were wed and said their vows perhaps two years ago in 'Frisco and although it was not official legally, it was as important to them as it is to me. They are wed symbolically and morally and no matter what politicians and religions say, they cannot legislate true love away.

As the father of two brides who, standing side by side, agree to live in harmony and holy matrimony, I have grown to understand no one has the right to say two should not live together in this or any other way.

I have learned a lot about love and human emotion by witnessing the shared devotion these two demonstrate. This is how the unity of two in love should forever be.

And so, somewhat belatedly, on behalf of my daughter Ande, I welcome her love, Dany, to the family.


I'm living in an age and at an age of aches and pains. But who complains? When it rains I stay in with my heating pad, my ointment and make an appointment with my chiropractor. When it's sunny I hit the beach and cuddle up with a sweater and a set of wheels and oh how good that sunshine feels! The lucky ones only hurt in spurts and when they spill hot coffee on their shirts.

I limp and scrimp and count my pennies and a big night out is dinner at Denny's with a doggy bag for desert. My eyesight's fine for looking at mini skirts and if I spill gravy on my shirts, can I help it if the chopped steak spurts?

I'm an eater-outer diner shouter and if the waiter waits to bring me extra plates that aggravates. I wage my salad bar war and stuff my pockets with Sweet and Low secretively so no-one will know I shoplift just for fun. While I'm on the line and I see that chick of sixty-six with the swinging hips and sexy lips and the bright red hair she got from a trip to the barber chair. If she has a car and she still drives I'll woo her with all that jive about how she looks just like a movie star and if she replies, "Who are you, a creep from Mars?" I'll respond with the Harharhars and pinch her cheek with an "Ain't you sweet."

When I was young I was a flirt. I figured one more quikie couldn't hurt. Now anything that wears a skirt, even a Scotsman wearing kilts, grabs my eye and I never went for a guy.

Being old is a whole new thing. You can become a ding-a-ling. But as long as I can sleep at night and chew and bite and have a mind and find I still can write, I say at eighty-one I'm still having a lot of fun!


I was a member of a football team than rose to fame and esteem because they never lost a game. They never once conceded and never ever cheated and, of course, were undefeated. Season after season the reason they kept winning was they had a special play that blew the other team away.

The coach was a cockroach, his assistant was a big red ant and the mascot was a poison ivy plant. When the opposition was in a position to win, Coach Roach sent in the second team---a giant worm, a slug, a jitterbug, a litterbug, a black widow spider, two lice, a couple mice, a mite that might bite, a termite that did, a few more bugs who hid in the crotch of a fan on watch from the five yard line.

When the other side eyed the second team on the field, they squealed and didn't know what to do. They had the ball and the quarterback was about to rack up the touchdown that would end the streak of the winning team. This Coach Roach's pride could not abide.

Ants got in the pants of the tackle and he began to itch like hell. The giant worm in the helmet of the guard made it hard for him to see and he responded repulsively. The spider landed on the ball of the other sider headed for a sure touchdown.

The jitterbug and litterbug danced with the mice and their act distracted the fans from knowing what was going on. Then the bugs in the crotch of the fan on the five yard line joined in the fray. And the lice jumped on the heads of the opposition, putting them in such a condition that all they could do was scratch and scratch so when the football with the spider on board soared in the air there was nobody there to make the catch except the mite or termite, which ever it was it was hard to tell, grabbed the ball and ran pellmell to the other goal.

And that's how his team won the Cereal Bowl.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005


It's a small, sleepy, town down south where people talk with mush in their mouth and y'all is something they say repeatedly. Lazy streets and byways, no highways, no billboard signs, of any kind, nothing to tell why it's eyed with pride by those who reside in this countryside.

Ancient trees, Spanish moss waving in the breeze. Birds fill the air with symphonies, showers of flowers everywhere. A town so small passersby never see bees pollinating lilac trees. Glorious greenery, unblemished scenery. Well kept rows of bungalows, dancing, drying just washed clothes. Come see what the garden grows.

Folks talk soft, walk slow, say hello and how-dee-doo with a smile while they pass by. Church bells remind folks to pray. A town clock tells the time of day.

Pets galore. More and more. Dogs on leash or running free. Cats sleep in the sun or climb a tree. A canary sings a melody. A saloon old men go to now and then. A barbershop where gossips meet to air biased views. A weekly that prints just good news. A jail that's rarely occupied. A statue of some guy who died for a cause none can decide.

A town banker who denies he cooks the books. Everybody knows he lies. A mayor short on brains, good with gift of gab, likes to blab. Laws voters disobey, but don't reject. That would be a sign of disrespect. A town cop who stops cars passing by. They know why. They pay, go on their way. Preachers break their holy vow, preach the good book anyhow.

These things happen in the town. Y'all don't spread that around. Town's not perfect, what town is? Had its share of immorality, infidelity, mortal sin. Nobody talks about, nobody lets the secrets out. Scandals? Might as well forget. Yet, they've lived the lie so long folks can't tell right from wrong. Honesty? Integrity?.That's old hat. So let that be the end of that.


If anybody told you it's great to be old, I'm there now and I declare you've been oversold. Take it from me, longevity ain't what it's cracked up to be. Aches and pains creep up on you awake, asleep, They take their toll on you. They invade the whole of you and take control of you,

Medications, complications of incurable, unendurable uncontrolled diseases take command of how you sit or stand, how and when you'll pass a stool or constantly be frustrated and constipated, whether you'll pee normally or endlessly, unzipped and ill-equipped to aim straight and it may be too late. You may be headed for St. Pete's Golden Gate.

Old age is a stage of growing doubt whether you'll make out with that attractive, active chick of seventy-six with the sexy lips and swaying hips. Do you lust for a gal who still drives a car? Can she tell you who you are? Should your mind stray or flip its cells or lose the use of some elemental mental component and cause you to have a senior moment?.

And every time you're out of breath you know you're one breath nearer death, Or when you cough or shout your dentures might fall out. Or if you laugh at someone's gaff or witty retorts you'll wet your shorts? And every time you bend or stoop you poop.

If these innocent unintentional incidents, events and accidents cause embarrassments and augment comments to some extent you might as well face the fact you are exactly what these acts impart, you are just a plain old fart.


I wake up long after midnight not quite awake nor sound asleep but in that twilight zone of grunt and groan as the sun is turning on its burning gear and gearing up to meet and greet another dawn.

Weary and bleary eyed, yawn after yawn, I turn on the kitchen light in search of my first bite to trigger my bowels and halt the sound of growls in my round belly. I don't want to watch the telly or read the news, I choose what will turn me on as one by one all the stars are gone, to where, I don't care.

With a fiendish gleam in my eye I become a serious cereal eater and a serious serial cereal reader. As the cornflakes turn to mush in my mouth I intensely read the contents on the box. (You won't find exciting writing like this on a pound of lox or a box of sox.) Or I scan the prose how hockey pros prefer the oaty o's in Cheereos. (Everybody knows, they'd just as soon promote strawberry jam or even Spam if the price was right. But who thinks like this in the still of night?)

When I'm through reading this, how could I miss the recipe that you use easily to bake a cake with rolled oats sold as food for billy goats?

In big type green and red they spread the news of what's inside to keep your body nutrified and certified as good for you, you know they lied. (Then find the small print on the total ingredients, designed to strike you blind.}

Most amusing are the games to play, created for kids but that's OK. Or try the things that you can buy with bucks and box tops. All and all, reading the reading materiel on the cereal box is quite crude and may not put you in a mood for food but it will feed your need until the coffee's brewed.

Sunday, June 05, 2005


A woodpecker pecks wood like a good woodpecker should. A hoot owl asks who? and a coo-coo in a clock goes coo-coo but is not coo-coo and that is true. All birds that fly know why they do what they do which is more than I can say for me and you.

We flit around from here to there, in the air or on the ground, all around the square, from street to street on tired feet and arches aching and breaking as a result of this undertaking.

When birds want to fly they flap their wings and the body does many things they couldn't do without them. When man wants to fly he must first buy a ticket. Once he flapped his arms and quickly found that wouldn't get him off the ground. Birds can chirp and birds can cheep and birds can build their nest---a cheap place to cheep yourself to sleep.

Man must buy or rent or lease or cuddle on a park bench with a wench until a cop comes strolling by and gives them the eye and they don't fly but flee or face arrest for vagrancy or, at least, disturbing the peace.

Birds of feather don't fly together as you'll see if you watch them fly in the wide open sky. They're not crammed together in traffic jams or assigned to budget seats where buttocks meet and get not a snack to eat. Birds can halt in their flight day or night to have a bite of worms they sight.

Unlike man, birds don't need a travel plan, they just take to wing and do their thing when and if they can. Man needs a reservation in advance of his vacation, business trip or just to skip the cops enforcing law and order waiting for them at the border.

Take my word. It's best to be a bird if you plan to fly. If you don't, just pass it by.


Humpty Dumpty was a good old bloke. Folks used to joke about his yolk. But they turned sad when they recalled he had all that cholesterol. After he fell off the deli wall it was learned he had no white at all. Just one big belly full of yellow, poor fellow.

I guess the poor guy had to die and his insides were the reason why. Most eggs stick to a diet low in fats and that's a fact . But when HD's friends suggested what they ingested might be good for him and he should try it, h reacted, "I just don't buy it. Eventually I might be somebody's omelette with bacon here and a big fat bagel with a schmear and coffee black and very strong. With a breakfast like that, loaded with fat, what does it matter? I'd rather go out in a great big a splatter."

And as you know, because the nursery rhyme tells says it's so, that's what Humpty Dumpty did. His plan was to escape the frying pan and avoid the fate of just another over light or a late night snack mixed with chives and chunks of cheddar cheese and whatever else you can't believe.

No soft boiled wimp was HD. A hard shelled good old egg was he up to the very end, I truly miss my hard boiled friend,


When the world is through and me and you and all the neighbors we once knew who knew us too have nothing left to do we'll rest and rot in a parking lot once filled with cars beneath the stars that still are there which, like we bodies down below, have no place left to go so will go nowhere and will comb our hair and shine our shoes and shave if we choose aware we have nothing left to lose except the booze we used to use to cheer us up when we were sad and sometimes make us sad or glad even though we knew it was true that in the end we all would descend into the abyss of nothingness an d eve n less and leave this distressful mess to the bugs and bees and chickadees and all the rivers and the seas and breeze and trees and flowers and waking hours and luxuries all the joys of girls and boys and toys to fill our lonely days as we grew old and knew when we were gone we'd never live again. Amen.

Friday, June 03, 2005


PCs have bugs, they have viruses. We blogs don't. They don't wire us. PCs freeze, may sneeze, even wheeze. Blogs smile. They say "Cheese!" They do what the blogger tells them to. PCs have glitches. Their keyboard itches. They suffer from faulty switches. Blogs just sit, wait for a hit, do their bit and that's it. No complications, aggravations, provocations, no blackouts or long vacations. That ain't easee for a PC.


Some folks tell jokes, some chain smoke, some just wait to have a stroke or heart attack. Some buy things and take them back. Some hack and yack about their sacroiliac. Some read racetrack news, pick a horse and lose, of course, or worse, pick the winner but forget to bet till it's too late,
Some die from eating what they ate. Some tempt fate and race a freight right to the gate---the Golden Gate.

Some have kids and then neglect them, then expect them to protect them when they get old and God rejects them. Some grow tall and some stay small, some are fat and some are lean and some are somewhere in-between. Some make love and some make war and some don't know just who they are, some make war and some make love and need a shove to do their thing.

Some consult and some insult and won't admit they're at fault. Some will, some won't, some do, some don't, some can, some can't. Some wait for a rich old aunt to die and leave them a slice of the dollar pie. Some love to hate, find out too late hating is debilitating and try in vain to put love back on the plate again.

Blog limericks 4, 5 & 6

A blogger of eighty I knew
said, "Have I got a blog for you.
It will addle your brains
And cause aches and pains.
But will it leave you askew? I ask you."

A flyer who hailed from France
One day got ants in his pants.
He was unaware
Of how they got there.
"It's cheaper than fare," said the ants.

I trot a lot, jog through snow and rain.
I never gripe or complain.
But one thing I hate,
I must slow down my gait
When a turtle stops in my lane.


At its inception this war was based on a misconception, a fateful error that if we'd fight with all our might---for we know we are right---we'd win the war on terror. The enemy did not agree.

So war was undeclared/declared based on this uncertainty. At first there was defiance to join the alliance we'd need to crush the enemy. George Bush, the wheeler-dealer squealed, how could they dare not yield to the most powerful nation in civilization? So they hurled their demand in a language Bush could understand: a share of the spoils, the Iraqi oils. But the war didn't go the way George said. And when the dead began littering the desert sand many packed up and headed home again.

There's no way of telling when our troops will start rebelling and then where will Georgie be? All alone defending humanity and democracy and explaining the hypocrisy of torturing the enemy with fun and games and nudity and all the other harmless pranks Yanks play to promote the American way.

Three cheers for the U, S, A.!