RHYMES ABOUT THE SNEERING SLIME

DUBYA, DUBYA, once a comer, now a dumber, prone to slumber while the voters do a number on his wrecked plumbing down while this clown still wears a crown as the self-declared King of Ding-a-ling. No doubt this Texas horse's ass should get out. This "dirty wurd" can't pass the mustard.
* * *
THIS TWICE selected president, illegal White House resident, this loser boozer, accuser diffuser of the truth, burglar at the voting booth, has made a mess of the U. S., aided by a bought and biased press and the far right fright. no less, should confess and face his doom and vacate the Oyeval Room. He and his phony baloney cronies gotta go. All the surveys say that's so.
* * *
POOR LITTLE Harriet takes her lumps and jumps off Dubya's clunking chariot. Says she: "I can't stand the daily dunking I've gotten since this punk plunked me in this race for a seat on this Court of Disgrace. And what's more, me and George ain't friends no more."

ABOUT THOSE WHO DOUBT

Have the religious right flight of fancy voters with ants in their pants who cast their ballot for Bush the boozer loser finally realized their prize is a just a booby?

Do they now know the things he said and didn't say, the lies he told along the way, the way he walks, the way he talks, the crude words he used were misconstrued to mean what he didn't tell these stupid people who can't tell a box from a two ton ox, a ham on rye from cream cheese and lox?

Just because they admitted what they got was not so hot, is just, in fact, a blot on humanity, does that get them off the spot? All those who went to bed with Big D must share the guilt of his dishonesty and hypocrisy. How can they atone? Disown this fragment of a man and dump him in the GOP garbage can for the also ran.

Because Bush lied more than 2,000 GIs have died. We can't bring back the dead, Bush can't deny what he said, but by using your heart and head, at least you may be able to sleep better tonight when you go to bed.

IS IT ALL JUST FATE?

You read about it all the time, a gifted man is killed self-willed or otherwise, in his prime before his life has run its course. Dead at thirty-five, so much promise denied, a future of hopes and dreams unfulfilled. When one so young, so wise dies they leave behind a trail of tears and empty, unused years.

People who lead an ordinary, unvaried existence seem to have a built-in resistance to maladies and dread disease. No matter what they eat or drink, whether they are fat or thin, whatever shape they're in, they exceed life's expectancy. Which leads me to the question people ask when things go right or things go wrong: Why?

Why can't life proceed at even keel, why must disaster steal the treasured pleasured moments we anticipate and treat so casually? Why must lives make sudden turns instantly or pain drain the body and the brain so casually?

In one fleeting moment life is through or hope begins anew. Who decides when or why? Not you or I. Is there such a thing as fate, a mapped-out route we all must travel, preordained and unexplained?

If fate there be, it makes no sense to me. It's strange how change can rearrange pre-planned expectations. How vacations can be cut short by tragedy. How a casual meeting, a fleeting encounter can counter plans once set in stone. But a voice inside tries to help you decide: "Don't play with fate. Let life alone."

But wait! Isn't every change you make, every step you take, every morning you awake dictated by fate? If you believe this is true, don't stew when faced with something new, don't ask yourself, "What should I do?" Fate will decide so why should you?

THE AGING BACHELOR'S LIFE

Every time I go to bed with that cute redhead of sixty-three to demonstrate my virility and my ability to rise to every possibility with the agility of my yesteryears I have a propensity to dwell on the immensity of my potency and sleek physique. What I fail to recognize is my heart and eyes are weak, my bladder's sprung a leak, my back gets out of whack each time I tax my sacroiliac.

When I take a chance to demonstrate my prowess at romance voices in my brain complain I'm putting too much strain on my ability to fend off senility which is slowly taking hold of me. "Act your age," the voices rage as I tear a page from my past when I used to last from dusk till dawn.

Although I know it's true I'm through or nearly so, I can't admit it's time to go. The mirror says I'm old. The calendar reinforces that. When did I cease to be a he-man man and become an also ran? When did my muscle turn to flab and I began to gab and blab and grab at straws to prove I could still get it on? When did I become an ex-Don Juan?

We Oldsters have a tendency to deny, to lie, to even cry when no one can see us letting go of our masculinity. It's a false belief our grief is brief, but we'll pay any cost to replace the love we've lost. We'll wine and dine a younger woman to ease the pain, to clear the cobwebs from our brain. But no matter who we embrace to replace our mate, when we go home late and walk into those empty rooms, the gloom looms, won't set us free.

My condo's in disarray. Clothes, laundry scattered everywhere. Dirty dishes in the sink. I think I'll clean it up next week. Or maybe wait and let my date who hates to see the mess do the job for me, the slob. Eventually she'll become the maid and cook and more, just what most widowed men are looking for. But what can she do? She's lonely, hurting too. So we both accept second best. You know the rest.

MY HATE AFFAIR WITH WILMA

Men who have love affairs rarely admit it. I had a hate affair and this is it. With me and Wilma, the windy witch of the South,it was hate at first date. I said to Wilma, gimma break, for God's sake, and take your insane Hurricane to some other terrain like Iran, Iraq, Therein or even Spain and leave my domain alone.

As a resident of South Florida I resent the bleak week I spent at your detour into my Brevard back yard. It was one of the most horrida experiences of my life. If you were my wife, I'd divorce you faster than a race horse coming around the homestretch, you windy wretch.

Life was so serene before you appeared on the scene with your mean intentions and your ploy to demolish and destroy the joy that, until of late, was great here in the Sunshine State. I must admit you play rough, but one puff from you was quite enough. So take your stuff and stuff it. We've had enough of it. We can't tough it anymore here on our shore.

Look at the homes you destroyed, the now unemployed. floods and fires we couldn't avoid, good times we could have enjoyed. My neighbors and I are not just annoyed, they're furious. I'm curious, why'd you pick our bailiwick, you sick chick? You came and left quick, such heart ache in your wake.

We'll clean up the debris you were so unkind to leave behind. We'll replace the trees you uprooted. The foliage you denuded. The wildlife you executed.

Thank God you now are gone. Life goes on.

SYMPHONY TO A SLEEPLESS NIGHT

One morning I awoke at half past three which I did occasionally. Nature was calling me, as they say. Bleary eyed I'd do what I had to do, then creep back to my bed and resume my sleep as I always did before. But not even a hint of snore, not the relaxation that precedes deep sleep, not the heaven blessed rest that is prelude to quietude of intruding unconsciousness eased me to the insensibility I sought so desperately. I shut my eyes. To my surprise I could not sleep.

I had read and heard it said that if I counted sheep in my head my bed and I would comply and by and by the shuteye I craved would come. Sounded dumb but I'd give it a try. I started out---one, two, three, four until I'd totaled enough sheep to fill a mutton store. You'd think shuteye would welcome me. That was not to be.

I tried counting other things. Telephone rings, swinging swings, romantic flings, ding-dong-dings, My imagination only led to more frustration. Then I asked the inner me, why not imagine a symphony or even a simple melody, some harmony to serenade me to slumberland? That didn't bring the sleep I sought but, oh, the sounds it wrought ought to resound at Carnegie Hall. I was so enthralled by what I heard that I forgot to do what I wanted to. I held my breath at each pause and found myself joining in the applause.

I thought I was wide awake, but when the conductor came out to take a bow my clapping startled me out of my hypnotic spell. I opened my eyes and to my surprise I was not front row center at Carnegie Hall, I was sitting on my toilet seat keeping time to the orchestration with my squeezing, displeasing flatulent sounds of constipation.

THE MAGIC PILL

There's a magic pill called testosterone. It's a pill each man must own. It's the key to masculinity that improves the sexuality, Testosterone has been known to thicken hair on chest and chin and other sections of the skin. it's been said to improve performance in the bed. You can buy it in a health food store because that's what health food stores are for. Take the pill and wait until it produces juices that will thrill. Nothing's greater than this innovative stimulater. It's a miracle rejuvenator.

COMPUTER LOSES, CLUTTER WINS

I found this insignificant ball point pen. I don't know where, I don't know when. It had a faded message on its side. I tried to read it but the letters were hard to see. The point was crusted, rusted, long unused. If a pen could be abused, this son of a pencil had been neglected, rejected, disregarded, discarded, It hadn't written since who knows when.

Will this pen ever write again? I found a scrap of paper on the ground. I wiped the tip on a leaf and, to my disbelief, it could \write.

A miracle of modern science, this simple writing appliance still filled with ink in a blink responded to my test. I shrugged and put it in the pocket of my shirt. It couldn't hurt to have a pen. I had to use one now and then. To
write a note, jot an address, make a mark next to "Yes" or "No" on an application for a vacation deal I never bought.

So my name and address and other detailed info more or less remained unmailed in my desk drawer. Wasn't that what cluttered desk drawers were for? Abandoned dreams, unlikely schemes, ideas that seemed important at the time, in retrospect weren't worth a dime. So I tossed the pen in the drawer. It soon got lost among the scrap and all the crap collected by an absentminded mind,

One day I found the pen again and decided to throw it away and join the computer generation. That miracle machine would be my salvation and spare me the frustration of a drawer so filled with this and that I seldom knew where I was at. I'd clean it out, starting with the pen and the computer would let me start all over again.

I went to the electronics store and told the clerk what I wanted the computer for. "Easy," he said, "just watch me." With mouse in hand and one quick click, he showed me how to organize. I could not believe my eyes. I learned a lot. I bought. I took the set and plugged it in, turned it on. The screen turned green. A welcome message filled the screen. No sweat. How easy could it get? I'll soon be surfing the Internet.

I took the mouse and clicked. Boy! This is fun! Then, I clicked again. The screen went black. I couldn't get the message back. Squiggly lines. Dashes, dots. Funny spots. Erratic static. Grunts and groans. Mechanical moans. I punched more keys. I think I heard the damn thing sneeze. Must be a virus. Must be sick. Click, click, click! Flashing, dashing little darts. Stops and starts, Big fat farts. Then it sighed and died. I couldn't resuscitate it. I hate it!

Thank God for the warranty. They gave my money back to me. I filled my drawer with brand new clutter. Not a flutter or a stutter. no dashes, dots or funny spots. Paper here and paper there. Rummage, rummage everywhere. Look and look. A note I wrote. I can't find it. I don't mind it. Even my trusty, rusty pen is happy to be home again.

DEATH DELAYED BY LOVE

A loaded gun lay at his side. A Bible in his hand. "This ol' pain ah cain't abide," he cried. "Dear Lord, help me understand." Amos wasn't much on writing. But he was done at fighting what had to be. "Got to write the family. I know I should. Ain't gonna tell them why. Just wanna say goodbye. My kids, my grandbaby. Maybe someday they understand what I 'bout to do."

He picked up the gun, put the barrel to his head. "Soon's I pull the trigger I be dead," he said, then put down the gun and a frown etched his fear. A roar like a howling wind pierced his ears, penetrated his brain.

"Is I crazy. God? Is I insane?" He heard a voice, faint but clear. In his right ear where he was stone deaf. "The left be the the onliest good ear I got good." In spite of his plight he had to laugh. "God give everybody two. Then he take one o' mine away day I borrned. Was meant to be.

"Kids wanted buy me a hearing aid when I make ninty-three, 'Naw,' I say. 'Lord decided how I should be. Don' stick no wire in my ear. I hear good enough all these years. 'Pears I live some more the way I Is'. Kids, they lovin' me. I loves them powerfully."

Pain like lightening came again. Wouldn't go away. His trembling hand picked up the gun. "I be done thinking 'bout things they in the past. I got to do it fast, do it shore. Guess it hurt a second, then hurt no more. Then I be at peace at the feet of sweet Lord Jesus. He meet me at the Golden Gate. I say, "God, why you wait fo' me?" He say, "Moses, you my son." Then I say to God, "I be black. You be white." I look up and God he black. Jus' like me."

Now I know what I got to do. My finger wrap around the trigger. I sure I gonna die It what I about to do. Then the strangest thing. The telephone ring. It be dead 'cause I don't pay the bill. Figure I will one day I get the
money. Somehow, funny, it be ringin' now. I picks it up. hold the phone to my deaf right ear. I hear clear's a bell. It little Dandy. My kids name her that 'cause that's what she be, a fine an' Dandy chile, "Hi, Gramps," she say. "Why you callin'?" I say. "Ain't you 'posed to be in a school?" She say, "Gramps don't be foolin' me. It Sunday. Why ain't you be at church?" I 'bout to say I got this date with God, but I just nod. She say, "This be our special day. I don't remember but Mama remind me, today the anniversary of the day you save my life when those white boys come after me." I smile. I put the gun away and say. "I do remember. Indeed I do." Then Dandy say, "I love you, Gramps. And Mama say remind that ol' fool---that's how she say it---she say, you come here eat tonight. We celebrate our special day."

Then Dandy say, "Bye now. Gramps. I loves you...powerfully, like you say." And I say, "Y'all go out and play. I be there by an' by."

Moses hung up the phone, put the gun away and began to cry. He looked to the heavens, gave a nod. He whispered softly, "Thank you, God."

BE A KILLER LEGALLY

As you drink your morning brew and read the local news you know what it's telling you, compelling you to do. You've looked around, you've scrounged around and haven't found a way to earn an honest pay because all the jobs have flown away to foreign shores for that's the way things are today.

Without work there's nothing you can do but steal or rob---isn't that a job of sorts? It makes work for cops and courts. It tips the scales, fills jails.

When all fails, all's bereft, there's nothing left but kill or be killed If that must be, do it legally. Join the military. It endorses murder, mayhem. Be one of them. Be a hero. You kill them, they kill you.

The president who sent you there through influence was spared military servitude. That college dude, with grades of C and campus revelry, stayed safe and on the lam as lesser men killed and died in Viet Nam

Take the job. It's steady pay 'til they put you away. Hooray for the U. S. A. Three cheers for the Red, White and Blue and Dubyu!

MASS MURDERER IN TRAINING

When he was in his teens most kids his age read sports and comic pages and headline news of violence that raged across the continent. Each event, real or fiction, was a prediction of what was to be. Sports, in certain events, glorified violence, sent chills and thrills up his spine. Reading about it, hearing mad fans shout about it, made his mind spin like the time he sipped his father's gin.

His real world came alive when he read of war and crime, killing that filled the news and the TV screen. He asked himself, "What does it mean?" One day he knew. He read of over populated nations where unfed blacks, were just skin and bone with bellies blown up like balloons, graphic indications of starvation. He was convinced wars were good. They killed bad people as they should. And the bloated who'd die anyway. But he could not do it alone. That was a GI's destiny. It was meant to be. "That's for me." he told himself inwardly.

Empty spaces quickly filled with new young faces, waiting to die. God told them what to do. God talked to him, too. Slay the bad to save the good. The wrong, the strong may may die along the way. That's the soldier's reality. That's his destiny.

BONDING: THE "OTHER" TO ANOTHER

It is said that when two bond they achieve a closeness deeper, sweeter and more lasting than any other kind of meeting of the mind, it is a unique relationship, stronger and longer than any other kind of love. It doesn't happen to everyone, but when it does you and your "other" know it,

I refer to this partnership not to just so-called blood relationships, mothers, brothers, varied members of a family. nor quote-unquote lovers, a word that implies semantic but not necessarily romantic meaning, simply a term that sounds profound.

"Others" are two who meet and find a common ground, a mutuality of views, who choose a similar path of life. Bonding of two can and should be any combination of the above. Caring and sharing can be a part of it, but at the heart of it, it's much more. Bonding is at the core of what we are or hope to be. It is the true reality.

Whether it is male and female or two of the same gender, even if it is friend or foe, someone you grow to know, or will not know until it is so, the term "other" still applies and defies another who has not yet found an "other."

I held this classification for last but it is not the least. I refer generically to "man" and "beast." Can humans bond with a pet? You bet they can and usually do. The closeness and the preciousness between the two is known by more than just a few.

To bond is not beyond the scope of any. Can many in search of meaning choose a pet and get a like response? It happens just because the one who gives and the one who takes make a perfect pair. They care, they share, they are there for each "other." And that, no doubt, is what it's all about.

TABOO AND T0-DA-LOO TO YOU!

Whose taboos? Yours or mine? Must we all toe the same line some asinine defines as right or wrong? Must we all sing the same old song? If you ignore the don'ts or do's and taboo who will be the loser, the confused or the confuser?

If we refuse taboos crudity will be out, nudity will be in, curse words won't be the worse words. Say what you say, that's O. K. Four letter words: If they say what you mean they're not obscene. If said just for effect, they're incorrect. Don't mince, convince. Be. distinct, succinct, intent, eloquent.

MEDIOCRE MEDIA

Our media's less than mediocre. TV talking heads report what Dubya said, They don't discuss. They lie to us. Ignore the Constitution. Trash democratic institutions, News reporters, tube distorters agree: "What's good for the GOP is good enough for you and me. "

GEORGE WALKER BUSH IS EVIL

Of all the presidents I've known about he's the hardest to figure out. Of all who've slept in the White House, he's the most inept, the least adept to negotiate the ship of state or deserve the respect of our armed forces or the horses in the cavalry.

Even those who drive his limousines, clean his latrine or run the nation behind the scene can't figure out what mealy mouth means when he lets words dribble from his bubble head. I can't understand this one man wrecking crew. Can you?

I've watched him infrequently on TV, heard and/or read what he's said in the press and on the Internet. This I know: we made a losing bet when we let this mouse move into the White House. Now not even an exterminator can't get the lout out.

Dubya's evil has caused monumental upheaval of the world economy, contributed mightily to the dollar's insolvency, helped destroy our water and air, waged war on the ecology. He's done all this and more without as much as an apology or an admission that his mission has been one big bad decision.

The Big Bad B ordered a killing spree by sending more than a thousand GIs to die to topple a hack dictator in Iraq and after millions squandered can't capture bin Laden who's still in command in Afghanistan. Even with his popularity in a dive, Bush insists his unjust war, contrived of lies, must slog on until every mother's son has tasted blood and mud to satisfy this Dubya dud.

Bush constantly amazes with his stupidity. But calling this appalling president stupid is too kind. He's insane. a man with a brain of sorts that courts disaster, a man who can't find a shred of compassion for the dead or share the blame for thousands who will never be the same, forced to live with injuries and disabilities, plagued by memories of tragedies they can't forget, Yet he and the war go on and on and on and????????????

IT'S JUST A THING PEOPLE SAY

Thousands die in hurricane, rain induced flood. Mudslide buries hundreds alive. Earthquake shakes earth, breaks hearts, rips apart life's dreams. Madman's wrath triggers blood bath, indiscriminately interrupts well-laid plans of a loving families.

Death, destruction, eruption, corruption, disruption. Games played by will of God supposed to watch over me and you. Is this the final word of the all seeing Being we should be beholden to when things go well, who we must comprehend when He/She suddenly brings life to brutal end.

There's an expression we automatically say in moments of distress. It's not, or should not be, admission of submission to a greater power. We need not bow or cower as we pray it. It's a chasnt of empty words poured into stillborn air to Someone who often is not there and never seems to care or share our misery.

This cliche is said in several ways, in praise or expectation of condemnation, depending on the situation: "Thank God" if things go right, "have trust in God when all goes wrong," Simply "God bless" or "God has His (or Her) reasons why. "

Deceived Believers praise or find ways to rationalize truth or lies as seen through the eyes of One they surmise knows all in crises great and small. The few the Being prefers to spare may share grief in momentary belief wish it had been them instead of mate or others beloved shoved into a waiting hell while they were chosen to remain unharmed for reasons only God can tell.

But after breath of death grows stale, reminiscence grows pales and new peace and joy erase conscious memory. except momentarily, they secretly, selfishly "thank God" who found a way to let them live another day,

It's said there are no atheists when possibility exists men may die in a foxhole or from bombs raining from the sky. But when the threat is gone those who lived in fear and prayed because they thought the end was near breathe a sigh of relief, express disbelief, "thank God" they still are here. At last, when the threat has passed, those who vowed they'd sin no more do every thing just the way they did before.

ACTS OF GOD AND MAN

When the world goes wrong and it seems dreams are about to disappear, the weak and strong, the optimists and pessimists, even those who insist there is no God will fill the air with prayer.

But when they plead their need to empty air and there's no one there to care they know they're lost, just like the poor souls in the Holocaust. Six million died when no one came to their side and the name of God was vilified and rightly so.

It was argued then the assault was not God's fault, it was, in fact, the Act of Man. But Man was part of God's grand plan. If He could create this whole damn place, did he not have power to save the human race? Even then, Men and Women of good will remained devoted to a God who knew and refused to do what trillions begged Him to.

Now it's all happening once again. This time it's not quite the same, but still the shame rests at God's feet. Again He ignores the fervent plea: "God, please save humanity."

Could He who could part the sea, create the laws of right and wrong, be so blind, to not change His mind and reverse this madness, this cause of pain and sadness, of torturous death and agony for which He alone must bear responsibility?

Were not the rains, the hurricanes, burials in mud, earthquakes and baths of blood, these Acts of God, not premeditated? Were they not the product of the same innovative mind who, believers say, we must face on Judgment Day?

COULD HARRIET BE DUBYA'S WATERLOO?

Goldilocks Harriet rides in her pumpkin chariot, pulled by rats and fat cats and that guy with the whip on this trip is the ill-equipped drip who might get nipped if she doesn't save his ass at the pass.

King George the First, and hopefully the Last, was cast in a role he could not control. Now he's in a whole lot of trouble. He's lived in a bubble much too long, convinced he could never ever be wrong. But we've finally found out what this lout is all about and the double trouble bubble's about to burst. Dubya's thirst for power has turned sour. His hour of glory has come and gone. Now all he can do is sneer and yawn and look for a four-leaf clover in the White House lawn.

This splash in the pan, this poor excuse for an over-rated compassionated conservatavated excuse for a renaissance man soon will be an also ran just like he was when first he ran as a Republican bent on being the president. Now he's a flop just like his pop and he needs new mammies to help him put on his jammies, warm up his beer, cluck him and chuck him and tuck him in his beddie-bye-bye. Martha once did it. Daddy did, too. Condie might do it, That could be true. It's only a rumor but one never knows. All's fair in love and politics, so the saying goes. Do you suppose?

Now here comes Miers fired with desire to rise higher than a kite in flight. But will she succeed? She might. The liar says yes although the majority say no. In this game of win or lose, who will choose? Stay tuned. Check it out on the evening news.

BUGS OF WAR AND PEACE

Dogs and cats, mice and rats, birds and bees flies and fleas, ants that invade pants and eat plants, termites that bite and snack on homes, cooties that rush to brushes and combs, slugs and bugs of every type, would you believe, they learned to read and write.

They sent their kids to school at no expense to study historic events, psychology, biology and sociology, science and theory so they could earn their PHDs while riding in the hair and on the clothes students wore to public schools and places of higher learning.

Of course, what they learned and the degrees they earned were not official, but the knowledge they consumed from colleges would help them in their goal to take control of the universe. Along the way they even developed sophistication and the finer arts of education.

Convocations were held among the plants and trees on campuses of universities to refine strategies to set up a new society to replace humanity as the sanity of the land.

Professorial pigs and wise old owls led the discussions among members of the National Association of Education of Creation in every nation, the Americas, Poles, Russians, Prussians, Occidentals, Orientals, Africans, Afghanistans, Lithuanians, Iraqis and Iranians, delegates from afar whose humans were engaged in war.

Just as they were near agreement in their intent to save the universe from worse than war, an international fumigation organization learned about the meetings and greeted them with lethal sprays. The carnage was complete. It was total defeat, mass insecticide. Million died. Millions fled in fear. Some remained, unrestrained.

"We die of brevity longevity," vowed one. "Our day is done. But our sisters and brothers will carry on the fight. Bugs of the world unite!"

BEDROOM SCENE

There ain't no bedlam in our bedroom, just lots of love and fun and games, same as in most boudoirs. We're making babies, not making wars. So when your day is through, and you've got nothing better to do, turn to love and lust and do just what pleases both of you.

MY VIAGRISH WISH

I am over eighty and over-weighty and it's debated how long it's fated I'll be strong enough to tough life out. I don't have many years but I have no fears of what will be when life is done with me.

When you perform on the stage of advancing age it's hard to gauge the veracity of your claims of capacity, your Viagrish wish of long-lasting longevity.

I'll try again another night when I think the time is right and see if I have the stability, agility, ability, the tenacity and capacity to score just once more before I retire and wait to expire which is not my desire but inevitably that's what years conspire and---oh what the hell! While I'm doing this depressing second guessing shit, I think I've still got enough of it before I wander down the road to serene senility.

It's not so terrible or unbearable to look ahead when I'll be almost dead but I ain't dead yet. I won't let life just fade away, Who cares what the doctors say! Some diagnose it as Alzheimer's. Some oldtimers shrug their shoulders as if to say things happen as you grow older. Believers state it's fate.

But when the time comes for me to stop debating I won't keep St. Peter waiting. I won't be late for my date at the Golden Gate.

DEPRESSION: Is It an Obsession?

No matter what some experts say, this nation is in two kinds of recession. Need an explanation? One leads and feeds on the other. The economy is depressed and, you guessed, less is spent when your budget's in a mess. And this means you, like the rest of us, are not just momentarily depressed. We suffer from a deep depression that only one profession can deal with. That's a shrink you think is the pro who will know how to help you now get your act together.

To deal with the depression about the recession, Washington has to wheel and deal and turn the downward trend around. This will make the nation sound. Then and only then will the consumer, or so the rumor goes, buy us out of the throes of the economic recession we are now in and have been in since March of 2001.

That's the date the experts say and that's good enough for me, Mr. G. Dubya says the economy's great, improving and moving faster than a snail in the right direction and cannot fail as long as we prevail. That's gobble-de-gook from a cook (that rhymes with spook) who got selected by a fluke. And the only kind of economy he recognizes is the kind that he has super-sized for the big buck guys of industry. And when you're worth a billion or more who cares what they charge you at the discount store?

Ain't it sad but funny that to those who have all the money every day is bright and sunny? When ever they get depressed they invest as insiders suggest and leave the rest up to their advisers. They place a bet they can't
lose and nobody is the wiser,

So to put an end to this two-pronged depression and learn a lesson from the rich. Give them less n' give the poor folks more and that will even up the score.

FROM HORSE SHIT TO BULLSHIT

Before there was a Henry Ford or Model T or an oil industry folks got around quite handily staring at an ass with a swishing tail pulling a bale of cotton or hay from here to there and everywhere.

I'm talking about horses, of course, and horsepower that powered the transportation of our nation. Those critters were a big shitters, caused lots of litter, but never gave folks cancer and were the answer to a farmer's prayer.

The horse was there in all weather, hot or cold you could tether up and say "Giddy-yup!" and it would go till you said "Whoa!" There was no need for speed limits or one way streets. Head-on collisions? Dobbin made his own decisions. He'd gee aside, do nothing wrong, and go bob-bob-bobbin along.

Then one day the Model T ushered in the start of a revolution of pollution and the birth of a brand new industry. Horses went to the glue factory. Oil and gasoline came on the scene and the auty-mo-biel was the big deal. Horseless carriages were in, horses were out and speed was what it was all about. Twelve miles an hour! That was power!

The horseless buggy kept chugging along. It got stronger, longer, sleek, streamlined, designed with style in mind. Almost everyone has one or two and they're not all black, Now there are buses and trucks and SUVs and homes on wheels called RVs. They're driven to work, on trips, to weekend bashes, Some wind up in fatal head-on crashes.

You know what cars can do so there's no point telling you. You know they're no longer cheap. That gas to run them is steep. That there's no dispute, they pollute. Still prices keep rising as enterprising gougers lie and send gas prices sky high.

And that's where bullshit replaces horse shit as politicians and oil company magicians find new excuses to heap abuses on hapless motorists. Come off it! They could cut profits and still make a lot. But they don't. They'd rather grab their unfair share and don't care and GB gives us B,S. He's willing to do more drilling instead of forcing industry to settle for a lower price in these times of sacrifice.

We're in a mess. In times of stress and strain and hurricanes, of a war we didn't need, in an era of grab and greed, let's put an end to it. No more bullshit!

THE HIGH COST OF LIVING

Once upon a time when a dime was worth a dime and a dollar bill had
dignity and power the pay I got was meager but still I was eager and
worked at full capacity each hour.

I saved a little money for days both bright and sunny and watched my
nestegg growing day by day. i kept a weekly ration as a hedge against
inflation with full faith in flag and country, Hip hooray!

With sights upon the 'morrow I set about to borrow cash for costly
clothes, a fancy car. I moved out of the city to a house so shiny pretty, had a
wife, two kids, then came the war.

Prices started rising which wasn't too surprising, but wages, glory be!
kept pace with cost. Income matched the outgo and life was status quo
though what was gained was just as quickly lost,

Then, God knows how it started, reason all departed and prices soared
higher than a wind blown kite. The pre-inflation dollar lost all its
hoot and holler and robbing Pete to pay Paul was my plight.

Now I'm working hard as ever, not so smart and not so clever on a
treadmill of this screwed up world's design. And I worry and I wonder
as life is rent asunder what will happen one fine day to me and mine?

HIGH DIDDLE DIDDLE GEORGIE DID FIDDLE

High diddle diddle what little George did will daunt him till his dying
day. He's caught in the middle and still wants to fiddle with lives
that he piddles away. He was baddy-bad-bad with his blab-blab-blab.
Now thousands are dead because of things he has said and millions are
sad because loved ones they had died because Dubya lied.

And what did he say as the war got worse and hearse after hearse
dragged bloody body bags away? "We'll steady the course. We'll pursue our
objective until we're defective. that is, I mean, effective. So say
I, your selective Commander in Grief, I mean Thief, that is I belief,
I'm your Chief, your Demander in Chief.

"And don't change your horse in the middle of the puddle. We'll just
muddle along even when things go wrong we'll keep singing the song, 'We
shall be overcome..." And so say he who stole the presidency and
created an enemy where none existed because he insisted they had WMDs
that we had to seize before they blew us all to kingdumb come.

Well Georgie stuck his thumb into what he thought was a plum but it
turned out a prune and soon, as the bodies continue to stack, we'll
give back Iraq to the good and the bad of picturesque Baghdad and we'll
worry about the flood and the drought and how did things work out after
things got too breezy and the Big Easy weren't easy no more and why
wasn't our boozer loser minding the store?