Thursday, April 28, 2005


Most addicts are erratic when it comes to their obsession to a certain drug or food and sometimes when in a hostile mood they will succumb, no matter what might come, to the addiction despite the friction it will cause in their life.

It could be drugs or tobacco that bugs and makes them whacko or alcohol that causes them to stumble and to fall, but overall, all addictions are the same in that they control the victim and inflict the punishment meant for those who can't oppose the obsessive need that grows and grows whenever they're exposed to it.

Well, this is about a sailor who resisted what his brain insisted: "You don't need it!" But I did, you see. The sailor was me.

I'm not addicted to coffee or tea, to cola. beer or lemonade. Gin's not the thing that pulls me in. Wine's not my vice. I'm addicted to a CUBE OF ICE. I must have one in my mouth to suck and chew and do the other things I do. Whether weather's hot or cold, I'm sold on ice. Chewing gum is dumb, chewing ice is nice. I'm a sucker who likes to suck and lick. My schtick is ICE!

I was sailing in a place where it was always cold, bitter as could be, zero minus 93. When my mates were drinking hot, that was not for me. I kept ice in my mouth, chewing furiously. I always had replacement cubes in my hat. When one cube melted or was diced by my chewing I knew what I was doing, I took another cube from my hat and that was that.

Well once, excuse me please, I had to sneeze and when I did a brand new cube flew from my mouth and landed in the icy sea. I heard it cry, "I'm free! I'm free! The icy sea is where I want to be!" And as what happens frequently, the cube bumped into a chippie chip and they kissed and the rest was history.

They made out in the ocean famously which caused no commotion because all the chips at sea were doing it, you see. And baby chips grew up quickly from cold and tiny to mighty glaciers in the briny. And, oh! the cube was proud. He shouted it out loud. I was saved by a sneeze and the warming welcome of the cold, cold seas!"


She lived alone, she was on her own, she was unknown by anyone. She had a name but no one knew it. She'd had a past but not much to it. She'd had a fortune but her son went through it. What was left, her daughter blew it. She'd had a lover, Nothing to it, But love she never had. And what she had was worse than bad. She was beaten by her mom, raped by her dad. Very sad. She had an ideal childhood.

But she had a telephone. And with this phone she was not alone. She would listen to the dial tone. To most it was a drone, To her it was a moan, a groan, a crying stone, an echo bouncing in the air, crying children everywhere, begging for their share of food. At times the tone was very rude, sometimes it was even lewd, it was crude, it would brood, it would cry out for humanity, the insanity and inanity of uncaring fools who made and broke the rules.

But the telephone and dial tone welcomed her to the land of codes and populated by corn pone blacks, forced to break their backs working on the railroad tracks. The yellow-bellied Chinks, she thinks, will rule the world and feed the masses with spoiled molasses flatulent gasses and poisoned sliced Oriental rice.

And the Jews were in zones everywhere, controlling banks and corporations, enemies of Arab nations and foreign relations. Well, she had news for all those Jews. When Adolf Jesus Christ returned they would all be burned and she did believe their ashes would be scattered over Tel Aviv.

When she showed her hate her back snapped straight and she sang her praise of that fascist state, "It's not too late!" she roared to the dial tone, every zone and smashed the receiver into her breast.

My doctor says I'm insane. Something happened to my brain. Too much depression, he said. I think something happened to his head. "What depression?" he said. "Not the one where we lost our money. The one where people get dumber than a bunny." The economy never bothered me. I'm as rich as a pig on a Christmas tree.

"The kind of depression I'm talking about," he explained, "is the kind that makes the brain feel pain it can't explain and sure as rain the patient flips and takes trips to Lalaland." I didn't understand. Maybe I was nuts but he was mad. It's the last session we ever had."

Just because I talk to ghosts and telephone posts and think pumpernickel toast is a Commie plot doesn't mean I've got the insanities, Maybe it's just a bunch of bananaties. Maybe he's the one who's crazy.


I am an absentminded confessor who will answer "Yes sir" to whatever you accuse me of. I'd come up with an excuse if it would be of use but it's easier to admit I did what I might have done. After all, someone has got to take the blame and it's all the same if you or I are put to shame than if the prosecution finds no solution to the crime and the execution is not carried out on time.

It really doesn't matter who did or didn't do it. We've all done things criminal, maximum or minimill, worth a year or two languishing and anguishing over who did what and why and when and where and does anybody really care?

Did you ever run a light, speed right through and just keep going and the guy next to you was slowing and he stopped? But the cop got confused and accused the innocent of criminal intent and he spent a night in jail because he couldn't pay the bail.

Did you turn around and slow down and tell the cop it was not him,it was you? And put yourself on the spot. Of course not. How stupid could you be?

It happened once to me. I got nabbed for what he did, he never blabbed and took the blame. The shame was heaped on me. I didn't resent it. He didn't invent it. The name of the game is "I'll Blame You and You Blame Me and One of Us Goes Free." Last time it was him, this time it's me.

Next time let some other sap take the rap.

Crime and punishment is a lot of crap.


This is the most obscene scene ever seen. Where once nature bloomed everywhere, where pure blue skies met admiring eyes and the ocean washed an empty shore and the nearest Wal-Mart store could not be found for a thousand miles around, where the only structure on the ground is a lone thatched hut that is tumbling down and the only hint of the insanity of humanity is the vanity of initials carved in the trunk of a tree by a tourist who wants to be sure the birds and flowers are aware that he'd once been there.

The concrete streets are painted green to match the palm trees' plastic sheen, the high rise a dazzling white with a roof of pink and what do you think the swimming pool color is? A lifeless tan to meet and match the sparkling desert sand.

Rows of beach chairs line a boardwalk of oak and pine, stripped from a northern forest glen by burly big beer-bellied men joking, smoking cigarettes, tossing butts into a brush of leaf and twig, not knowing that one glowing ash could set the forest ablaze for days and days with loss of life and ancient trees and nature's masteries.

And what about tourists strolling by, shorts and shirts of every hue, bulging breasts out in full view, rumps and clumps of fat fueled by overeating that triggers heart attacks and strokes and death of folks addicted to beer and Cokes.

All this and more created by man on this distant shore that was once a heaven sent monument to the good life on earth which, for what it's worth,is now only a fading memory.


Of all the animals in creation, none have a better reputation for increasing the population of their gestation with a flare for copulation. Does Peter Rabbit ever take time for a vacation? Or is his avocation cohabitation?

God gave all animals the juice to reproduce so they have no excuse if they fail to seduce the female of their species who otherwise stay in the kitchen baking pies to surprise their mate when he gets home late from a date with a horny hare.

The bonnie bunny must submit and permit her counterpart to perform his art and display his private parts to every tart who wants to start a brood and is in the mood.

At Easter time the rabbit's prime attention's not concerned with intervention to prevent that spermy worm from going as far as it can get to target another score.

While lambs have kids and katydids think it cricket to make it in the thicket and hens have chicks and ducks do what ducks do to have ducklings, animals carry on from dusk till dawn to spawn their future fur or feathery families.


A monkey at the zoo named Lou knew something no other animal knew except for the ape named Jake who it had happened to. It was a secret kept by Jake who didn't want to make a big to-do and cause an issue at the zoo where he lived free quite comfortably.

But Lou disagreed and felt the world had need to know and so he escaped one day and hid in a computer school and as a student soon learned how to go on line and informed the internet that Jake the ape had learned to talk and read and write like people do.

When news got out about this educated ape the newspapers and the networks, too, Hollywood and Channel Two and every outlet on the net deluged the zoo with demands to shake Jake's hand and interview him so the world would know if it was true.

Officials at the zoo thought it was strange an ape could talk and a news conference could be arranged by the monkey named Lou. They met with Jake and asked if it was true, Jake replied: "It cannot be denied that it's true but, for goodness sake, why get so excited,,,"

The zoo boss at first was at a loss at what to say, then interrupted Jake, enthused by the news, to declare: "Not be excited? We're delighted. With all that publicity and notoriety we expect it will affect our zoo in terms of admissions, commissions, attention of politicians to supporting our missions and decisions and expectations of increased donations to the zoo."

Jake nodded his head. "And what's more, this will open the door to citizenship and voting rights for apes and monkeys too and all the animals in the zoo who can pass a test or two. In any event eventually we will elect a baboon president with a mate who can count to eight, appoint a secretary of state named Condawhatsa Kashanosha and an army private for attorney general."

Jake would have gone on and on with his demands, but the zoo crew held up their hands and warned, "You're darned cocky for a talky ape to make such demands. Just know your place and do your schtick or we'll ship you back to Africa real quick."

Which was a place Jake wanted to go back to. So he decided what he would do to these human mammals who tried to trammel on the rights of animals.

When the day came for his meeting with the press Jake looked the same as any ape in the zoo. When questions flew in his face, Jake faked stupidity and pulled his ear and scratched his rear and crotch and snatched a watch that was laying around, stuck it in his mouth and swallowed it down. Then he took a slurp of water and he burped. The normal sound did not abound. Instead it came out tick-tock-tick-tock. Jake reared back his head and roared, then lay down and snored. The media got bored and left without a word.

Know what? Jake went back to eating nuts and fruits and chicken wings and jelly beans and other things, learned how to play a piano, a guitar, a banjo and do the tango. He wrote poetry and was intellectually inclined but hid behind a stupid face and knew his place.

Jake the ape managed to escape fame and notoriety that usually came to men like he. Jake died at sixty-three in Africa just another member of the simian family.

A FOOTNOTE: Before Jake died he wrote a book about his youth and told the truth that really he could talk but maintained his silence to the end. Why? Take a look at his book. In fact. it's now out in paperback.


I must confess, I am a slave of the IRS. Bills to file, receipts to save, records of the gifts I gave, all the paperwork I shirked throughout the year comes back to haunt me, to taunt me and I fear the fees and penalties will amount to a mountain of debt. I don't know yet the bills I'll get, I'll fret and fume, then face my doom and ante up, you can bet.

Income tax is a taxing time. The IRS wants every dime I owe and when I plead poverty the agents look at me as though the dough I owe and will have to pay is peanuts to the USA. But what's a pittance of a remittance to Uncle Sam is a damn fortune to me and other supporters of our failing economy.

What I tried to get away with I must now pay with money from my piggy bank. I'm tanked. I'm spent. And every cent I had is gone. I'm on my way to bankruptcy. And then last stop, the Federal pen.


It was a fine howdy-do and was known throughout the zoo, no doubt it was true, from cage to cage it was the rage, the lions in their pit were part of it, every rhino I knew and every hippo, too, were in at the start of it. It wasn't a plot but there was a lot of it.

The turtles in their shells, the baboons and the loons and the men who sold balloons could tell all was not well. It had cast its spell on the sick and well in the menagerie. It wasn't imaginary. They knew how the inmates of the zoo went through the antics animals usually do.

And it was true. Something was askew throughout the zoo. It started with monkeys' monkeyshines and spread then two by two to the gnus and kangaroos, the pythons and the bisons, the ant eaters and the skeeters and the cats and all the rats who enter free without paying a fee like you and me.

The monkeys were the junkies who first began to crash. Where they got the cash to buy their stash of crack and hash nobody knew. But every day as the zoo would close the jungle came alive with all that jazz and all that jive and the beat of stamping feet and the smoke of a toke of poke, a cough and a choke and coke would soak the veins and befuddle the brains and the fur would fly as birds got high not in the sky but in their nests and sometimes guests would join the quest for a shot of pot. And the pelican went psychodelican again.

The laughing hyena would laugh a lot and the coyote hooked on peyote would howl and the owl would who-who-hoot and shoot and the fawn would get it on from dusk to dawn and this would go on until all the drugs were gone and then they'd have to wait for the next supply to get high again.

Too-da-loo. See you at the zoo.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005


I was on a tour to the distant and obscure unblemished tropics and that is the topic of my report. This leg of my trip is only a hop and a skip away, a thousand miles or so they say. It will only take a night and day and we'll sail into the bay of Walla Walla Yankee Dolla, the most remote place on the face of Earth but is it worth traveling to?

Make note, this island's so remote, not a single boat has visited since explorers Nora Schnorer and her lover, Peter (Dangling Dick) Jones, who gained fame when he jumped out of a plane but his pants remained on board. His parachute and his jumper suit got stuck in a tree but DD hung on a limb and the monkeys took one look at him and what they saw made them hee-haw even though it was against the jungle law. But I digress. Let us return to our gripping trip.

I've heard it said and I've read you ain't seen nothing yet until you've made a call at this atoll, a tropical pair of dice which is another way of saying what I'm telling you is a bunch of crap.

Well, they got DD out of the tree with minimum damage to his you-know whats and I'm not referring to coconuts.

The first native we met was a talking gazelle who had a lot to tell and told it. But hold it! First we slaked our thirst with a venom shake made with water from a nearby lake where a snake was playing patty-cake with an ape whose name was Jerky Jake. It didn't take long until we were zonged out on the sand and soon things got out of hand as thousands of naked natives took us in tow to a boiling pot and you know what they planned to do.

"We ain't gonna boil you," said the gazelle. "But this much, I can tell. We'll cut off your ears for souvenirs and your nose for buttons for our clothes. We'll transplant your eyes into two batty bats who've been blind since they were born hanging from an ear of corn, a kernel stuck beneath each lid, and that's what did their seeing in.

"For our soup, we'll strip your skin from chin to shin and cheek to cheek and let it boil for a week. Then, Mr. Jones, we'll toss your bones and what's left in the pot. Now, what do you think of that?"

"You haven't mentioned our high cholesterol, saturated fat, the sugar level of our blood, and all the crud that fills our veins and clogs our brains from smoking cigarettes. That, plus drinking booze and listening to the evening news will make our bodies of no use for soups and stews so why not just let us go andresume our cruise?"

The gazelle and natives all agreed and thanked DD and did concede that our meat would not meet the standards of the FDA so it would be better if we took our shoddy bodies and went away. And leave we did and bid farewell to the gazelle and the naked natives and that's all we can tell.

Sunday, April 24, 2005


Come along with me on Gullable's Travels to the Island of Illusion. Bid goodbye to all your conclusions and preset notions as you sail across an ocean to an unreal reality.

The first thing you'll learn as you turn into the Bay of No Return is that in spite of what Columbus found the world is not round. But then it's also not square or any shape anywhere. The truth is, the world is not here or there, it is nowhere.

Then how, you say, can your ship be in this bay with natives shouting "hip hooray!" urging you to come and stay and be their guest for ever and a day if there's no world and they and you are surrounded by the ocean blue? No confusion. This is the Island of Illusion.

The single topic in this tropic is to engage your every fantasy. So enjoy my boy! Enjoy! Enjoy! Let life become your toy. Land ahoy!

Welcome their hospitality and share the imaginary feast they've planned on land which isn't there. What's to eat can't be beat. Beef beyond belief, kosher salami, hot pastrami, cookies baked by your own mommy, yummy food to fill your tummy, Perfume floating on the breeze, Viagra growing on the trees. Take off your shoes, choose your booze. Shed those clothes, fool-a with a naked hula.

Imagination, hallucination can satisfy your frustration in this halucinary sanctuary in a sea of fantasy that defies reality. You make your own morality based on your vitality and sexuality.

What you want is what you get. You ain't seen nothin' yet. Anything goes. All's O. K. The palm trees sway. They seem to say; Stay and play another day. Don't go away!

So when you sail back to the waiting world, fraught with frustration and confusion, plan your next vacation on your secret Island of Illusion. It's calling you out in the blue somewhere in the nowhere way out there.


Would you believe---It could only happen in Hollywood. For years the Disney corporation's claim to fame was its animation. You've heard of their stars, Mickey and Minnie, you know, Pluto and Daffy Duck with a yuck-yuck-yuck. Snow White and her seven tiny schmucks. Animals who sing and dance. No hint of sex but some romance.

That was back in the good old days and the ways of Walt, perfectionist to a fault. But when he died, the movie moguls did decide they could no longer avoid putting humanoids on celluloid. So they hired lothario heroes and other lovers, some obscene, to dominate the silver screen, some to display sexual effects , others just for downright sex. A brand new scenario stole the show and X-rate Mickey, away we go!

Now there's a lot of hot romance and stars and starlets with desire and fire in their gasps and pants . Cartoon characters don't stand a chance. They've become outdated. P-rated, relegated to whoopty-doopty Betty Boop and Popeye's "goil," Oliveoyle.

Ain't it strange how things have changed? What once was smut now is art. To get a part an actress must jump in bed and shed her clothes and reveal her thems and these and those and expose whatever goes between their fingers and their toes. No longer could Hollywood win with stars that hid their skin, and Mickey Mouse and all his kin became has-beens in this age of sex and sin.

But the PR guys were very wise. Just portray Mickey gay and that will say it's all OK with the hipsters on old Broadway. Like, Minnie will become a dyke. And Donald Duck will---you know. As for the rest, we'll arrange a little Homo on the Range.

Immorality was meant to be. Sex and sin will set us free! As Porky Pig used to say: "Tha..Tha...Tha...That's...All...F...F..Folks."

W...W...Will... S...Somebody P...-P...Please P...P...Pass...The P...P...Porn...I Mean Popcorn.


The country's in a fix of dirty tricks and politics. We're between and we're betwixt and nothing clicks. Nothing clicks.
Back in days of yore when Clinton ran the store we had more than we ever had before. There were jobs galore. Bill was keeping score. Bill was keeping score.

Only way was up. Frisky as a pup. No trouble with the bubble. It was double double. Stocks were doing splits. Now we're in a fiscal fritz. In a fiscal fritz. In a fiscal fritz.

Don't know why or how. Something happened to the Dow. It ain't the same Dow now. Somebody milked the cow. The cash cow has been milked. The public has been bilked. The public has been bilked.

Now look who's undoing things. Look who's pulling strings. A bunch of ding-a-lings. A bunch of ding-a-lings.

The country's in a mess. In a state of deep distress. It's anybody's guess. When will someone be found to turn it all around? To turn it all around. To turn it all around.

That's the way it is. The country's out of biz. The soda's lost its fizz. That's the way it is. That's the way it is.

We can even up the score. We can take back the store. We can do even more. Push Bush out the door. Push Bush out the door.


One moment of indecision, a loss of clear-cut vision , can lead to a collision of logic and religion that will cause laws of sanity and egotistic vanity to collide. Thus he seeds of civil war are planted and plans of a peaceful planet are again delayed while the game of war is played and death rains on the world's parade.

Who will win and who will lose? Don't leave it up to God to choose what's right or wrong. Should the weak or strong be in control? The whole world waits impatiently while the two sides debate with bombs and hate. Bullets fly and millions die and mothers cry and after war is done and no one has won or lost and, oh! the cost in human life and sacrifice!

Will the lesson then be learned? Will the world then have earned one more chance or has it had its final dance with democracy? We will just have to wait and see.


The Y at 23rd and High, across the street from Red Eye Pete's Saloon, A radio groans out a tune no one knows or listens to. Nobody shares. Nobody cares. A blind-man stares at empty air but nothing's there, The smell of stale piss everywhere. Tears are shed by the living for the dead, but nothing's said. Old men mutter memories, lost wealth and families, long-forgotten luxuries and dream of friends where past and present blend into as maze of missing days,

The Y at 23rd and High hard by the Gospel Church of God where nobody cares what you are or were---a Jesus freak, a pius Jew, a follower of laws without a cause. A place to sleep while roaches creep up windowless walls, where down the hall's a shower stall, a single seat to do it all, a rat to keep you company, to share your spare crumbs ravenously. Where the old go to die, the young to cry, the weak to sigh, the angry to defy. All to ask why.

The Y at 23rd and High, Goodbye

Saturday, April 23, 2005


Keep it green, keep it clean, keep it serene, keep it the way it's always been. Don't let the spoilers in. Let the oceans flow, the palm trees grow, the breezes blow, the land just so.

Don't change it or rearrange it. Leave the sand and nature's land where God intended it to be. No high rise, just blue skies as far as the eyes can see. Just let it be, it belongs to you and me and to all humanity.

Let even the smallest bush alone except the one in Washington. Because when all is said and done, Bush is the one we can't let be.

Nature hater, desecrater, tax debater instigator, leave the land the way you found it, don't look for sneaky ways around it, don't pass legislation that will deal devastation to God's creation. He had his reasons why he put it here in our corner of the Hemisphere. The sea and skies will survive if we just realize what they destroy could lead to our demise.

Architects and top execs can change the effects land has on the population of the nations, not just ours, the U. S. A., but every nation with which we have friendly nations and even the rest, In the final test there is no first worst or second best. When all is said and done, we all are one beneath the sun and we don't want a nuclear dump in our backyard for Donald Trump.

The sun is here, the moon is there, the stars are scattered everywhere. The seas breathe in the breeze. Will the trees that line the shore be with us ever more?

Will the sand be dredged from the land to meet the greed and need of industry? Will the air be pure or will our children have to endure the smog that clogs their young and hungry lungs?

Evolution should determine the future of the smallest vermin, even the fleas and microscopic biologic entities and stem cells, if you please, that one day might cure dread disease. And who's to say that one day garbage that we throw away might hold the clue to a better life for me and you?


Mary was given a greeting at her seating at the meeting of the eating of Champions of Chomp, a Festive of the Indigestive, those with gumption of the art of consumption who stuff their gut with God knows what and that's a lot of what you find on the menu of men who do what they do to turn their calories cuckoo askew and their cholesterol out of control as they take a deep breath and eat themselves to death.

And what happens to those who watch their weight grow from date to date with their nose in the plate and their eye on that last piece of chocolate pie?

They die from the disease of food, if you please. As their pounds increase they release all their will and just fill all the space in their tummy and their body grows gummy and flabby and they get crabby as they wait for the next meal to begin.

What a sin!


Case: 12345678910
Patient: Alice Gonzallas

Patient lives alone, on her own, unknown, has a name but doesn't know it, motor-mouth, just can't slow it. Has a past but not much to it. Had a fortune, son went through it. Daughter got what was left and blew it. Had a lover, no one knew it, including him, party to it. Childhood bad. Beat by mom, raped by dad. Very sad. Otherwise pleasant past.

Has one friend, the telephone. Talks to the dial tone, Sometimes it moans, sometimes it groans, always cries, always lies, very wise. likes pizza pies, has blue eyes, screws around with other guys. Tone choked and died on chicken bone, reincarnated as a busy line. Dines on wine and turpentine. Has a big fat behind.

Switched loyalty to codes, areas and zips. Sure they're gyps. Overcharge her for long distance blips. But loves their quips about sinking ships, Hates the Chinks. Thinks when they take command they'll feed the masses sticky molasses, lice and poisoned rice, melted ice at double price,

Hates the Japs who invented ginger snaps, baseball caps and other things, perhaps.

Hates the Jews on a cruise, eating, cheating, reading news to brush up on their p's and q's. Believes the rumor that Schickelgruber will return as a fat Arafat to lead the Arabs down the pyscho-path to the public bath. Her favorite poem: "CAMELS SMELL. THE SPHYNX STINKS."

Patient loves to hate. Plans a trip to the Golden Gate, a Big Mac strapped to her back, french fries between her thighs. A kosher pickle Popsicle, to her surprise, won first prize as her spy disguise.

(NOTE: Want to add your retort to the doctor's report? Blog it to me but keep it short.)


We live in an age of high level crooks who cook the books not for bucks that suck but for votes that bloat the quest for greed and power that make losers of the hour quake and cower in fear and do the bidding of the sinning, winning plotters, rotten to the core, whose lone response is always "Give us more, give us more!"

They profit from the labors of their neighbors who do what they're told to do to help the victors of the fight hold onto what they've won not by right but by awesome might that haunts them in their sleep at night but what they deny when dawns the bright daylight.

By God, what they get by fraud would shame the fame of Jessie James and claims of all the rest who plied the West in quest of gold. They never thought they'd see the day when the trick of politics would make the six shooter looters lose to the computers without a shot fired to win the wealth that they desired.

Friday, April 22, 2005


Watch what you say. Beware of saying a cliche, You may regret it once you've said it. For example, here's a sample: You meet a guy on the street you're sure you haven't seen in quite a while. You smile and say: "Hello. what's new?" Turns out it's not someone you know. But so what? He's got you in a spot. He's got a reply.

"You ask, 'what's new?' Well, I'll tell you. My uppers. Now I can chew my suppers, My lowers, don't they look real? Got 'em free, part of the deal. See my nose? Got the skin graft from my toes. When I blow my nose my toes go 'Honk!' Want to hear?

"My new wig, it's a fake. They make the hair out of lint from a bedroom chair. Do I look square or debonaire? It's what all the New York hippies wear.

"What else is new? My right shoe. I left the left in the monkey cage at the zoo. The ape was in a rage at you know who. The lion roared. The hippo snored. The gnu was bored. A preacher said, 'Oh my lord, what's this zoo coming to?'

"My heart's a transplant from my aunt. My liver's from an anonymous giver. My brain's from part of Einstein's remains. My kidney's from a kid named Sidney. The question is, did he need the kidney? My pancreas was made from a cow's fat ass."

"Hold it, Mac!" I said, aghast. "You mean to say what I have in mind, they now know how to make a belly from a cow's behind?"

The man was snide when he replied: "My doc, the vet, knows what's best. What udder part would you suggest?"

Monday, April 18, 2005


What is a flood? It is mud and water and trees. It is one of man's worst enemies. What is a flood? It is the blood of water spilled down the throat of a lowland town. How starts a flood and where? Who is the stud? Who the mare?

I climbed to a mountain's high peak where the snow froze the face of the sky. I watched the sun play hide and seek and saw the rock solid heart cry. The tears grew to small limpid pools, the pools spilled together, then poured to a valley peopled by fools who slept in their beds and snored. While they slept, water crept stealthily like a rattlesnake stalks an enemy.

To the river trusted and true, the mountainous waste disemboweled. The river the fools thought they knew reared back on its haunches and growled. Then like lions who live in a cage and suddenly find themselves free the river went on a rampage and ate the town ravenously. And so I know, floods start in the high mountain snow.

I sat by a small running stream and looked to a cotton-white sky. As I gazed at Heaven's regime, an ominous cloud caught my eye. The cloud pushed its way past the sun and hovered like buzzards in flight. God shot a thunderous gun and hell ruled the heavens that night. A town slept, inept, unprepared and scared.

It rained and it rained and it rained. It poured and it poured and it poured. The bladder of Heaven was strained. It spilled like a matador gored. The rivers, the lakes and the streams claimed earth as their slave. A town split apart at the seams and sank to a watery grave. Now I know it is so. Floods are born when clouds overflow.

Flood's a comin' sure as hell! See the Goddamn river swell! Git the chickens and the goat and the children in the boat Ma, don't worry. Don't gitcherself in such a flurry. Git some food and bones for Frisky. Don't fergit to bring the whiskey!

River's got us by the britches. Damn you, river, sons' bitches. River, river, please don't seize us, Hail, hail Mary! Holy Jesus!

Chicken coop and barrel hoop. Grab that cabbage for our soup. Thar's a tire in the river, just the size for my old fliver. Yonder on that log's a clingin' Parson Jones, just hear him singin'. Hallelujah, brother preacher! Thar floats the school but whar's the teacher? Cats a drownin', dogs a swimin'. Save the children and the wimmen. Tables, chairs and beds a sailin'. Momma stop those kids a wailin'. Water's climbin' higher, higher. God damn you, God, you god damn liar.

Flotsam. Jetsam. River gets 'em.

* * * *

When the weight of a heartache is pressing and the future keeps everyone guessing man is liable to turn to the Bible and pray for the flood to go away. And if he prays hard enough and strong enough and loud enough and long enough he sure as hell might get an answer. He prayed and the Lord surveyed what He created. He waved His hand and the flood abated.

When the river's calm and the night is cool and the moon is big and bright and the corn is tall and the larder's full and the belly's stuffed real tight and the robins sing their song of love and the summer bursts with pride, is there man alive with a speck of brains who'd move from the river's side? When the water's calm and the dam's repaired and the reservoire is low and there's rain enough but not too much and the sun is all aglow, and the price is right and the price is tops and the land is three times blessed, who'd move his brood to the higher ground away from the river's breast?

So the fools returned and rebuilt their homes and they washed the mud away and they fixed the fence and the swinging gate and they dried the soggy hay and they shined the panes and they dressed the rooms in curtained care and love and the sun shone through the rotting roof from the heavens far above. They swelled with pride and they praised the stream smiling at their door and forgot the past and looked ahead to the better life in store. But high in the mountain's lofty peaks white crowned with jewels of snow the sun beamed bright and burned the ice and the pools began to grow and in the sky where clouds conceive their litter brood of rain, a pregnant mass of blackish white cried out in labor pain.


I don't believe I believe, but a part of me is not so sure. I say to me in the privacy of my inner thoughts I really ought to wait and see. What am I talking about? I'm trying to find out, Is there a God or is He just an ancient fantasy, a phantom of philosophy, a myth created by theology for the likes of me who can't face reality that God, is an impossibility?

A trillion prayers are said each day to a single God at least a billion light years away and He can hear just what you say and weigh your words reflectively and answer them effectively. That's the most absurd thing I ever heard. No matter how hard He tries, God must realize even He can't be that wise to handle this job of monumental size alone. all on His own.
God guarantees satisfaction or your tithing back, not knowing how His congregation will react. The impact of the dissatisfied will hurt His holy pride. His reputation will be besmirched and He'll be banned from every church because He disappointed even those He has anointed.

To avoid a scandal He can't handle God must create a corporation of prayer OKers in every congregation to hear the pleas and please the troubled members of his flock. That way there will be less shock if God can't hear a prayer or two. He'll be
absolved. Problem solved. And if a prayer is not granted in every situation, the prayer is under consideration and the giver must take a number and wait in line for God's dispensation. It may be He is on vacation or seeking verification from a scripture he wrote and failed to note and now can't quote. In any event, praying to God is time well spent.

Sunday, April 17, 2005


Is there intelligent life in outer space? Of course there is, it's everyplace. It's not that we mere mortals don't know. It's just that we don't know right now how to get there. Or where There is specifically. We're searching everywhere in the air but what we are not aware of is this: it may be right under our nose in a nearby galaxy.

What we seek may take a week, a month or many years or even centuries of discoveries. Or there are possibilities we might never uncover it after all.

There are many gods far out in space where we have never been, each a million or more light years away. That's the way the gods designed it. "Make it hard for them to find it," scoffed the gods. "Increase the odds. And maybe when or if they solve the riddle they'll have learned that you don't fiddle with or mix in another planet's politics."

You may have noticed up till now we've referred to gods in the plural. You're all overwrought by the thought that you've been sold the fantasy there is one god and He is a he. Is that the way it's always been and will always be? No, that's not so. To think that way is a sin as you will see as we reveal the real truth to you.

You see, out there in the ether there are many planets well advanced and enhanced with creatures just like us or in a transient state and thus don't yet have the intelligence they will get, but you can bet their chance will come and some will be just as smart as we on Earth claim to be.


Did you ever watch an ant traveling down a road, carrying a load twice its size, more than its weight, at a steady gate exceeding the speed that you'd expect from that tiny insect?

As you watched this bug lug its load you'd not believe your eyes that a creature of such small size could tote its prize with such apparent ease. You'd expect to hear it gasp and wheeze, groan and moan, see its knees go slack with this weight on its back. But mighty ants pursue what they must do to feed their greedy colony.

An ant will never say "I can't" if he or she spies a plant or a piece of cheese, a slice of meat or something sweet that requires transportation back to the ant plantation. The population, as you'd expect, of this speck of God's creation keeps on growing and there's no knowing or sign showing if or when it will be again on the decline.

Manufacturers of insecticides have tried to rectify the situation. They've tried starvation, constipation, stunted sexual stimulation, mass annihilation, but in spite of every innovation to induce elimination the ants continue to produce through enhanced romance that always leads to copulation.

Pesky as ants can be, God created them assiduously to fill a need only He can see. What can that be? Ants don't enhance the economy. They don't contribute like the honey bee to a sweet treat for you and me. They pick picnics to invade maliciously. And ant always get into plants and peoples pants.

So what do ants to benefit the human race? Certainly they must have their place. "Maybe," God said, "like other creations and infestations, like the fly and flea, and thou and thee, I'll turn them free and later decree what their purpose ought to be.

No matter what mankind might do to kill them they will be here still.
Because, as the Bible says, it is God's will.

Saturday, April 16, 2005


Remember what happened in Germany, a once great democracy. Their economy was terrible. Conditions unbearable. No jobs. Inflation. A nation in despair. No indication there would ever be a turn around. That an answer would be found.

But a politician with mad ambition came to power with desire to devour all of Europe. In its place this mustached maniac with funny face created what he called the Master Race.

He spread hate and sealed the fate of millions and all who chose to disagree with the venom he preached endlessly. "I accuse the Jews," he said. Thousands fled. Six million dead. And all the good people said. "We are a democracy. It can't happen in Germany." But it did. That's history. Look it up, then insist it was a fantasy.

Now look at the U. S. A. and the way things are today. A little man with funny ears has spread fears among we who love democracy by his previous devious trickery. He came to his illegal power and within hours of his inauguration took this nation down a path to perdition to pursue his mission to destroy the Constitution and every freedom loving institution dedicated to protect the liberties he choose to reject His mind-set:.Terrorism is here to stay unless we do it all his way. He's a threat worse than the enemy. He's the menace you can bet we'll regret unless we say no more, no more.

You can't compare the U. S. with Germany. They're not the same, I agree. But the attitudes show a shocking similarity. Many of We and millions of They once regarded freedoms casually. We must cherish our rights or they will perish and then we'll have no rights at all. And we will fall.


I am a member of the "I Can't Remember Club." I recall all I should forget, forget what I should remember.

A bet I made when I was ten, a game between the Reds and Cards. My team was hot. The Cards were not. But I never got my just award. The bum still owes me a pack of bubble gum. I won't bore you with the score, but I remember that and a whole lot more.

In my teens I had a girl named Shirl with skin like pearl, eyes of blue and hair bright red she said was real. It was, that's true, but the hair was swept from the barber's floor. I remember the dress she wore and a whole lot more, but that's a bore.

I was a virgin at twenty-one, By twenty-two I was a man with a list of conquests I can recite and guarantee most are right, but dames are dames and names are names and sex back then was just a game, a bore, no more, so I won't tell you anymore.

I confess that, yes, I invested in the bubble and wound up in double trouble, and I remember what it cost, The schlock stock that won, the ones that lost, the dogs, the dregs that had no legs, the teks, the dreck, what I kept turned cold, what I sold was gold, the same old story ten times told. I remember each decision with the memory of a homing pigeon. But you don't want to know how low stocks can go, To remember makes me cry. Since you know why, why should I tell you more? just a bore.

Back to the club where flubs rub shoulders, scratch heads and forget what they just read on the net, what to get and what to sell, what time to meet and on what street, a hot flame's name and telephone, your wedding date, the church, the place, the face of the bride who will be at your side, who asked who and when you say "I do" do you?

What happened yesterday? The day before? Where do I go tomorrow to borrow the money I spent today? Which is which and what is what and did it happen last December or July? I can't remember what I should remember, yet I can't forget what I should forget.

Friday, April 15, 2005


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 messily zipped, 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?.

Then there's the problem of choosing, keeping or losing friends. When friendship ends in death or from some other incurable complication, or the mind goes on a permanent vacation, as Alzheimer's does with some old timers or even we old rhymers you may be slipping toward senility.

How do you replace someone whose memory you can't erase? Or forget the name of someone you just met? And every time you're out of breath you know you're one breath nearer death, Or when you cough or shout your dentures 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.


Here's how our government works. We elect the jerks who hire the clerks who do the work and then sit back while the hacks stack the vote in favor of the legislation the delegation of corporation CEOs have proposed. Of course the opposition knows the new law will never be enforced. Both sides are satisfied. And the taxpayers are taken for another ride.

All buy it and all is quiet until such time one side commits high level crime that violates the dictates of the bill everybody forgot about until this legislation made the news. Who will win and who will lose? Does it depend on judge and jury and the fury of the people at the time aroused by the crime?

Is the prosecutor a straight shooter or is he a lawyer-liar who aspires to a higher job, a slob, you know, one of those who can be led by the nose? Can he be bought? Has he been taught how to finagle under the table for private gain to seal or squelch the deal?

Sometimes the defense has the sense to find a flaw in the law and, of course, force the court to resort to throwing out the case post-haste.

This is what legal legality and legislative morality are all about. If one side can instill doubt, they can win out. The other side can react with fact and valid evidence, but current events amount to naught. The culprit's caught. That means a lot. The basic issues of the case won't get the winner to first base. It depends on who defends their side of the contest best. The question is: Who's the sinned and who's the sinner?

Forget the facts. Forget the law. Forget what the witness saw. Forget the testimony. It matters not what's true or phony. In the end it's bull and boloney.


One day a rat and a squirrel met on a trail. The rat, we'll call Nat, fell in love with the squirrel's bushy tail. He loved how it swished and wished he could do that. The squirrel, we'll call Shirl, saw the rat hang from a limb of a tree by the tip of its tail. "Even a cat can't do that," she said as she watched the rat twirl around and around with a squeal of delight. And she asked as she gazed, impressed and amazed, "How do you do that?" Nat said with a grin as he continued to spin: "There's nothing to it. Anybody can do it."

And the more that they talked as they walked through the wood, they knew it was good, Shirl and Nat were meant for each other. Not as sister, not as brother, but as lovers, could it prevail? Herein lies the tale of Shirl and Nat, the squirrel and the rat. How will it end? We'll see about that.

They sat in the shade of an old oak tree, cuddled and huddled romantically, and in between kisses, they learned what true bliss is and knew that this is what was meant to be. But then, with a pout, Shirl began to doubt that this could work out because the features of these two creatures, although much the same, knew it would depend on the ends that extend from the rear of their exterior. Bigotry would interfere with their tryst and insist it must not exist. What would neighbors say? It never fails. Their tails would
give them away.

And it is known, rats are hated. Squirrels are mostly tolerated. "Have no fear," Nat said with a smile ear to ear, "I'll get a tail transplant and they will say we look alike from head to toe and who's to know my bushy tail's what makes it so."

They were wed and it is said they lived together happily. Eventually, they added to their family. They had a little girl. And here's where my tale comes to a close. She has Nat's nose, His feet and toes. But that's as far as it goes. In the end, that little girl looks just like Shirl.

The family secret will prevail. She has her mother's bushy tail.


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 gastronomy.


Mighty Mickey Mouse, his loving spouse and a lot of tiny little mice and a pack of rats live side-by-side in an illegally occupied Hollywood house with cats and bats and gnats and fat and fuzzy this and thats wearing hats and spats study specific statistics and logistics.

Most are teachers of fellow creatures, insect inspectors of sectors of scientific discipline, each a specialist in a different category. So what's the story? Each respects the other's territory. There are cogent rodents, insects of super intellect, on-line felines and science giants with brains the size of fleas and bees. All use mini-IBMs with their tiny size in mind.

One day the great Bill Gates went shopping for real estate. What's more. he found what he was looking for. He couldn't wait to obliterate this ancient piece of real estate on this site in which he found delight. But soon Gates the Man found bugs in his plan and a mouse loused up Bill's grand design for the project he had in mind.

So Mighty Mickey Mouse kept his house and Gates the Man is still in search of research real estate.

Thursday, April 14, 2005


Once there was a different me. Pain free. I could hear. I could see. I lived happily. Had health. Little wealth. A wife. For life? Thought so. No. Not to be. She preceded me.

Some stay. Some go. It's so. Like a picture show. They begin. They end. Descend. Fade away. Like a play. It's certain. Curtains.

Fiction a contradiction. Creative, innovative, imagination, extemporization, dramatization of possibility of reality.

Truth, an uncouth sleuth. No doubt. That's what life's all about.