WAR. PEACE. PEACE, WAR.

Why war? People die. We. The Enemy. We kill Them. They kill Us. Such a fuss, All die gloriously. Victoriously. Immorally. Who bad? Who good? Who decide? Depends on side you're on. Who won? Whose son succumbed?

What's it all about? Who has doubt? Who clout? Figure it out.

Peace? Release. The Deceased. Police police the Beast. Winners. Losers. Abusers. Accusers. Choosers. Set the fusers.

War again. When? Depends. Leaders, Conceders. Propaganda feeders. Readers. Deceivers. Believers. Achievers. Grievers.

Peace once more. An open door. Who the Stud? Who the Whore? Who's minding the store

A DAY THE WORLD DIED---ALMOST

One day the sun failed to shine, the moon refused to glow, I watched the stars all disappear---where did the heavens go? I went to sleep and had a dream the world had died. When I awoke there was a sky without a single
cloud. It was gray. it wasn't blue. It covered Earth like a shroud and I heard God cry out loud, "They've taken my world away from me."

Farmers wailed as crops all failed and rivers dried and cattle cried for water The grass turned brown, no rain came down, and all over town homes burned down and there was no way to fight it.

Churches filled and people willed that God would face the blight and right it, But rumor spread that God was dead and it was said his son would rise and succeed him. If ever he was coming back, now was when he was needed. But day after day all was the same, he never came. People looked around to spread the blame but could not name the source of evil.

"Blame the devil," someone said. "He must have caused this havoc, this mystery of misery unlike any time in history. We demand a confrontation."

A commission was sent to hell to see what could be done. But when they rang the bell of hell there was not an answer, "Smash it down!" roared the crowd. And they did. What they saw were devil's advocates everywhere, people eating, drinking, having fun, naked dancers lolling in the sun, everyone as happy as could be, no sign of any misery.

And then they spied the devil's throne. He sat there talking on the phone. A television awaited his command. He returned the receiver to the hook, opened up a small black book and said, "I've been calling you. I just made a deal with some big wheel in Washington. He sounded like a lot of fun. I said I'll turn the sun and moon back on, replace the stars that now are gone. and with my big gold magic wand, turn what happened into one big nightmarish dream if you agree to George's scheme of which I approve explicitly. George will rule the universe and split the purse with me."

With that the devil flicked on the screen. And there was Bush with ears replaced by horns and all the GOP and defenders of democracy, bowing down to the man who wore the crown.

"He's my man," the devil said, turned off the TV and went bed.

IN IRAQ, WHO OWES WHO?

It happens again and again. Nations owe dough to each other but, oh brother, when it's time to pay, you can bet they look the other way.

Whatever has happened to the cash we "loaned" to lands that never owned two dimes to rub together? Never did we ever think they'd pay us back. We assumed they'd become our friends. But money 's the place where friendship ends.

Iraq's a good example. The amount we spent defeating them, to say the least, was ample. Now we're spending more to continue a war we never won. We paid in guns and our sons, in ammunition and commissions to U. S. firms who crawled out from under rocks like worms to cash in on the endless flow of dough we're spending to end a war that's never ending defending a land we say we that we defeated.

And when it's over, if ever, we're never going to get it back. Iraq will say, our economy's gone from bad to worse so reimburse us for what you spent on us as you cursed us and wasted on us to devastate us. At the time we said it was bucks well spent because we'll get back every cent by confiscating all their oil. WMDs were never found. There's plenty Iraqi oil in the ground. More than enough to go around. The enemies of our enemy, now theoretically our newfound friend, sound more like the victors while we embroil them and spend our spoils.

The enemies of Hussein and, by the way, also us, are still around while the beast of Baghdad, comfortably incarcerated, lolls around waiting while our allies are debating and Bush expounds how Iraq will be a great democracy if we pay the endless fee to see that his dream of peaches and cream comes true.

But who owes who? Nobody knows.

WHEN GOD CREATED

When God created snow and rain He didn't tell them why. He just explained: "I have my reasons."

When God created seasons. wind and storms and other forms of blowing things, the angels asked and He replied, "I know what I'm doing." Then He came up with snow and rain and cold and hot and dry and wet and yet, when they inquired, He said, "I was inspired. I desired more to do, just like when I created you. When I'm through, I'll put it all together and I'll call it weather. But first I have in mind different kinds of this and that,like bats and rats and pussy cats and..."

The angels didn't understand what God planned. He held up his hand and patiently replied, smiling wide, "Trust me. Soon you'll see. Have I ever lied to thee? Have I ever kept thou in the dark?"

"In the what?" the cherubs remarked. "What's this thing that you call dark?"

God nodded. "Just wait. When the time is right all I've said will come to light..."

"To what?" a mother angel cried.

God laughed and then He said with pride, "I must be careful what I say. I'm using words I just created on this day. Like dark and light, day and night, black and white, early, late, just you wait..." God was amused. They were all so confused. And then He said. "I have another inspiration. I will give you all the benefit of my creation."

Again God waved his hand and vowed, "Now you understand the words I use and what they mean so it is time I set the scene." God pointed here and there and everywhere, "See, the grass is green..."

They all repeated, knowingly, "The grass is green."

"Right," said God, "the snow is white, the night is dark, the day is light, meet my little friend the pig, and here's the horse, of course..."

"Gosh, the horse is big," they giggled as it swished its tail and wiggled its nose.

"And now meet my friend, the elephant and his tiny fiend the ant. One is big, the other's small. But they are brothers, after all."

The folks in Heaven understood as He knew they would. And as God went on creating, elating old and young, they looked in awe at what they saw and they knew what God was trying to do."

Finally, God sat down on a cloud and He said, "Whew! I'm through. Now children, tell me true, what did I teach you?"

And they all shouted with joy and mirth, "God has just created Earth and sky and we know why. He created all the birds that fly. And by and by, so many things He will create and we'll know why. God created us and so we know. If He says it's so, it's so."

It was the sixth day of God's chore. God had so much fun doing what He'd done and He and They knew there'd be more. For He and They knew what God was for.

An angel shushed, "Now I don't want to hear a peep. God's done His work, let Him sleep."

They all crept away as God slept at the end of day, singing their song as they walked along, "God is good, God is great, only God can create." And as they faded out of sight, God awoke and winked his eye and said, "You bet! They ain't seen nothing yet!"

THE EGG THE HEN COULDN'T CRACK

Henny the Hen was the barnyard glutton. There was nuttin' she wouldn't eat. Her pecking speed could not be beat. She didn't scorn cracked corn and ate her fill as chickens will, but that fare was not enough. She filled her craw with all kinds of stuff. She'd spot a snug bug sleeping in the sun. One quick peck, that bug was done. Once Henny found a dish of meat. Peck-peck-peck, not a speck was left on the dish. With a swish, she ate the dish.

Henny went pecking down Lover's Lane where necking was a favorite game. She found a condom on the ground and gulped it down. Henny grew so fat you'd think she'd become somebody's Sunday dinner, but besides her mighty appetite, she was the winner of every egg laying competition in sight.

One day Henny met her match. She laid an egg she couldn't hatch. It was not egg-shaped. It was round. When it plopped out on the ground, it bounced up and down. It had a strange elastic shell. The more the chick grew inside, the more the shell would swell. When it tried to peck its way out the newborn chick would bounce about and shout, "Get me out of here!" The full-grown chick got no reply. Oh well, it thought, the hell with it. If that's my fate, I'll just stay and grow until I suffocate.

Henny figured I've worn out my beak, all this pecking's made me weak. I'll ask my rooster friend to try his pecker. Maybe that will do the trick and I'll get my chick. The rooster was a good necker, but it had a lousy pecker.

"That's a hell of a tough shell," the rooster sighed. "I can't break it." Henny replied: "You helped make it."

A farmer's son went walking by. He saw the egg, thought it was a ball. He bounced it once or twice, and once or twice again and again, then he heard a peep. A crack appeared in the shell and sure as hell a giant chick fell out of the so-called ball and that was all.

The boy took the condom, not the worst for wear, and showed it to the farmer girl. Nine months later, to their joy, they had a bouncing baby boy.

A WOMAN IN A TREE

I met this woman in a tree. She sat on a high branch staring down at me. I stood on the ground, about to pee. I wondered, what was she doing in the tree? Bear with me and soon you'll see. As she descended from the tree to the ground, her beauty and vivacity astounded me. Her openness and honesty, her personality and vitality captured me immediately.

But I was embarrassed and chagrinned and began to walk away when she called to me, "Hey, don't go away." She laughed in a devilish way. Her long, uncombed hair tossed uncontrolled, sparkling like strands of gold in the bright sun overhead and said. "My name is Glory." She said it simply, invitingly.

I stood transfixed as she talked. She was strange, seemed deranged but not insane. Her words spilled out fast, she cast a spell on me.

"The reason I climb trees is to relive my childhood memories and, at the same time, forget what troubles me. Can you understand?"

I nodded yes, tried my best to figure out what she was all about. She laughed, said, "No you don't but you will. Say, what's your name, anyway?"

"Pete," I said. She laughed. "What irony! Do you believe in coincidence? Do I make sense? Your initial's P. It rhymes with what you were about to do and T for tree and G for me. It was meant to be. But now I'll tell you about the tree, Mister P."

For the first time I saw her frown, her lips turn down, her blue eyes glisten with tears as I listened. "My father and I were at the sea, Dad had taught me how to swim until I was as good as him and he swam professionally, He spotted an island far from shore. A sandy beach, a tall oak tree. The water calm. the ocean blue. 'Want to try it?' he said. 'I dare you.'

"We dove in. 'Let the race begin,' he shouted loud. I never doubted he would win. He always did. But suddenly the sun hid behind a cloud, the sea churned, the waves tossed high and suddenly we were lost. Then the sun returned and burned our eyes, I lost my way. Dad did too. The mighty oak faded from view. waves heaved high as Dad and I plowed on without hesitation toward our island destination, uncertain where it might be. We swam and swam and treaded water, dreaded that we might drown as the sun came down and night consumed the once bright sky.

"Dizziness robbed my consciousness. I felt my self plunging down. Was I asleep or was I dead? Suddenly, I was on the beach, the mighty oak overhead. I called to Dad. He was not there. I climbed to the top of the tree and saw Dad futilely trying to swim to me. I shouted into the blackened sea. Hopelessly. I watched the Dad I loved go down. I saw him drown. And that was all. Well, not quite. When night gave way to a sparkling day the sea was calm as a plate of glass, as smooth as a new-mown field of grass.

"Now. when I'm high in a tree. I can see and hear my Dad calling me. 'Glory!' was his name for me. I wait for him longingly. And now you know why I climbed that tree."

THE GIZMO GOD

God created gadgets galore and will dream up a billion more before He closes up the store and calls it quits. But back when there was nothing there, not even air, and nobody and no bodies to use it, why did God choose air as His first creation?

He didn't know what air was for, and what's more, He didn't care. He just saw this empty space some place and figured it would be a waste not to use it. After all, He was the God of Gizmos and Heaven knows, eventually, even unintentionally, potentially there would be a purpose for this surplus oddity commodity.

Then lo and behold out of the blue God knew what to do, create something and someone to use it. But but who or what would choose it? He'd create something that sucks and this was Man. But what's a Man and how can man fulfill the plan to inhale the air here and exhale it there and share it with others who'd dare to sniff this stuff called air not knowing what its effects might be?


Of course this was all speculation. There was no indication or inclination of what might result from this experimentation but they'd have to try. If Man would die they'd know the reason why but it was worth a try.

ABOUT OIL AND THE AMERICAN DREAM

Gloom and glut. Grab and greed. Reduce the need and feed the bottom line and everything will be fine. Sock the poor and middle class. Enrich the rich by cutting supply and watching prices rise as high as a Texas sky. And all the while the oil barons smile and get their share of whatever the traffic will bear.

The oil's here, the oil's there. the oil's sloshing everywhere in the ground and in the tanks. The soaring profits fill the banks. And who should receive the thanks? The yanks who've died to fill the ranks of multi milllionaires who drive their SUVs as long and far as they please. Mileage doesn't mean a damn. Just leave it up to Uncle Sam.

Drivers with sense could lower their expense by driving less and, yes, that's true, but what are they going to do when there's a place that they must go just to earn the dough to pay for where they have to go?

Life has become so complicated, all because big oil has created a situation in this nation that causes no elation among those who have to ration what they earn among what they burn and what they eat and how they heat and how they meet daily costs. Somewhere along the line we've lost the way the U. S. A. once valued the treasures and pleasures of another day.

What really is the American dream? A home. That's right. Food enough for a second bite. Security day and night. The right lo live as we might. Protection from those who hate and would turn America into a one party fascist state. Is it already too late? Can we afford to sit and wait for a brand new day to dawn? How long will this malaise go on?

DREAMS AND SCHEMES AND LOVING THEMES

People who snore may be a bore, but they know what sleep is for. They may purr or they may roar, but when you hear them you will know that somebody is minding the store.

A deep, deep sleep is the only kind that rests the mind, unwinds the tightened wires and releases nightmares you'd rather hide or confide only in the closest ghosts that host your frightening fantasies.

Sleep that leads to dreams of schemes can seem unreal and really are for you're in a war with yourself. What you get is a consensus of your senses. Share what and who you are with those you know casually and possibly they will come to be close friends emotionally and devotionally.

What does friendship have to do with dreams? Dreams are the hidden key to the you inside of me. And the me is often what you'd like to be. So put the two together and you will be able to weather the worst of storms that form in the eventuality of your reality.

Dreams analyzed and departmentalized, sliced and diced twice or thrice should be kept on ice until mummified rice comes down in price. What this means I haven't got the slightest clue but neither do the dreams I share with you. Which boils down to this: a loving kiss and a soft caress and an eager yes obtained not under duress which leads your lover to undress and head for bed is the best way I know to cope with stress.

ONCE UPON A RUMOR

A billion trillion years from now when the earth's no longer here and the moon and stars have outlived their warranty and Disney and Wal-Mart have merged with NBC, CBS and FoxTV and all our families have ceased to be and Christmas trees and cottage cheese and all the ships at sea and coffee, tea and chicken soup have gone the way of the hula-hoop and all the angels are living on Social Security and all the banks have declared bankruptcy, when corner bars have moved to Mars and Baby Ruths are free, and whatever is forever and forever's history, who will solve the mystery of how we came to be?

When Jack and Jill went up the hill without their pill and came down with a daughter. when Mary was not quite contrary and did it with an otter and Goldielox and the Big Bad Fox had lox and bagels for their dinner, when Snow White went to bed one night with Dopey, Doc and Sneezy and found that pleasing them all at once was really very easy, when Cinderella met a fellla and he gave her a slippery slipper and Jack the Giant Killer fought Phyllis Diller and she was the winner, when Alice went to Wonderland and we wonder where she went, it's rumored that she was living with a camel in a tent, and Mother Goose played fast and loose and mated with a moose and did, indeed produce a baby and they named her Jucy Luce.

Now I admit that every bit I reported is distorted. pure rumor and sick humor, untruths overheard in telephone booth. falsehoods spread by Robinhood, verified by Adam and Eve, I do believe, and though it all may be unfair I dare you to deny it, With this I close my bit of prose, Ain't it all a riot!

SENIORS ARE OLD, NOT COLD

The subject of sex is not a dominant one when seniors get together around the condo pool. The men in the card room may trade dirty jokes between poker hands and the women may tilt their heads to listen as they play bridge or mar-john at adjoining tables. They'll titter and maybe blush but that's about all.

This piece is not being written in my usual verse style because I think it's a serious subject worth dignity: sexual intercourse between consensual seniors. Just because they have reached ages ranging from the seventies up to one hundred and more doesn't mean they've all lost the urge to merge, at least occasionally.

I don't know if there have been any in-depth studies in this area, but even if there have, they could hardly be objective considering the sensitivity of the subject. There are really only a few questions to ask: are you still interested in having sex with a woman/man, same sex or bisexual and how often? are you satisfied with achieving sexual satisfaction without the benefit of a partner? how would you go about securing a partner to share your needs and desires?

Obviously, seniors who have certain medical problems or physical restrictions will be reluctant to pursue sex partners, but that doesn't necessarily diminish their desires. Those willing and able are limited in their search to find partners suited to their needs. I would imagine gay seniors would have particular difficulty in this regard.

I would like to offer a few possibilities. Adult condos and senior centers could establish clubs and social events where the emphasis was on meeting, mating and sometimes marrying those of the same or opposite sex. Lectures on senior sex needs could open the doors to frank discussions from participants and a possible pairing and sharing by seniors so inclined

Obviously, seniors could not go bar hopping or prowling darkened neighborhoods where street walkers ply their trade. They can't, or at least shouldn't, advertise in alternate media for sex partners. In some situations the solution could be legalized, medically supervised prostitution and/or trained sex therapists either at a facility near the condos and senior housing or at the senior living quarters.

Such a service could provide needed physical and emotional therapy for participants. We welcome comments from professionals, seniors and blogers willing to express views and offer constructive suggestions on this sensitive and most serious subject.

AN ECONOMIC FAIRY-TALE

Once upon a time when crooks were in their prime during a wave of corporate crime, America lost its soul and bought the pie in the sky lie of a do-or-die guy on a roll who stole control of the whole dang shebang, The nation was in a downward spin, but the fools stuck with him through thick and thin and made him the King of the U, S, A,

At his inauguration, as ruler of a dying nation, Dubya declared forget today, wait and pray for a bright tomorrow. The secret of our success will be borrow, borrow, borrow. To the sorrow of nations and corporations who invest in our rehabilitation, we won't reimburse. If it gets worse, their debts will soar as they loan us more and more.

Foreign leaders say trust the U. S. A. They'll repay. That's their way. Those honest fools live by rules. And money we will earn on interests and commissions will make us richer than we already are."

So they went along and when we agreed to repay a dime on the dollar they didn't holler. They knew that's how you do what you do to renew faith in the almighty dollar. Any scholar of high finance with his head in his pants will say take a chance. Don't turn your back on the romance with democracy. It may be an hypocrisy but it's the only way to go. In the end America may go down the tubes and the rubes will wind up with egg on their faces as they get on bread-lines of their own design.

Once there was a land of milk and honey and everything looked bright and sunny, everybody had tons of money and believed in the Easter Bunny and Santa Claws just because and that's the way it was.

CRIME PAYS IN MANY WAYS

What's produced in Hollywood is both bad and good, clean and obscene. rated X and PG and in between depending on the bottom line of profits at the time---the influx of bucks that sucks the suckers in, the frequency of absurd four-letter words, of dialogue inane and plain asinine and unrefined that's seen and heard on the tarnished silver screen.

When it comes to movieland morality forget about quality. Producers and other excusers play it loose, turn on the juice and glorify the abuse of man and beast to release a box office piece when dough is low and they know it might stop the show but not the flow of idiots who go to see it.

Well. that's my summation of the situation of Hollywood humiliation that assaults the nation in the name of uncontrolled creation. There'll be no censorship on this or any future trip as long as Hollywood flips and flops and pulls out all the stops to cop the top reviews that please the indiscrete movie industry, already replete with subjects too offensive to mention to
grab the attention of a demented, discontented clap-happy hypnotized, mesmerized segment of those who go to movie shows.

This didn't all happen recently. Indecency began back in the days when silent films turned violent to capture the mood of a nation fascinated by the fame and lack of shame of those with names like Jesse James and Poncho-Villa that filled the media of the day with six-gun justice just as corporate crooks cook the books do today.

Let's us face the facts that criminal acts, like in days of old are bought and sold on Wall Street all the time to the nation's shame. The motivation's much the same. It's all about stealing and concealing crime, wheeling and dealing on a massive scale what ever is for sale and will forever prevail as long as thieves are released on a million dollar bail and flee the country easily to continue their crimes quasi-legally in lands where courts and cops pull out all the stops to protect the suspects from the law. It's an attitude that sticks in the craw of the few who hold the view that those who do the crime should do the time.

It's a myth that crime doesn't pay with dividends and never ends is in politics where the fix is in before the dirty works begin. You just can't win. That's the way it's always been and will always be as long as risk-free criminality corrupts integrity and the truth of all time is that the punishment doesn't fit the crime.

A LONG, LONG , LONG, LONG LIFE

Is it probable and possible that someday man will survive maternity and live for an eternity enduring touring through years of fears and tears and Walmart shopping, trips to Sears and perhaps Gaps. and scores of discount stores and eating super size fries and pizza pies and grow up to be one of those Einstein-like wise guys as a candidate for the Nobel prize?

Will this man be so clever that he'll live forever, pleased that he's never ever succumbed to or come down with the flu or other things most mortals do and have to take a pill or two or a wonder drug that attacks and whacks those ailing and in failing health in spite of wealth that makes them richer than Bill Gates?

But what's the point of eternal life that outlives children, a dozen wives and the lives of cousins and legations of relations and friends and foes and all of those you knew since you were a kid of ninety-two? Eventually, potentially you'll be alone choking on a chicken bone, a peach or cherry stone while lying prone talking on the telephone and lapping up an ice cream cone when you will stop to take a breath and put a cold beer in your ear and freeze to death.

This much I know, I ain't so sold on living long knowing things can still go wrong, Even though I know I can't get sick a quirk of fate can send me on a trip to St. Peter's Gate where I'll have to wait while God and the angels debate. He'll state He hates to turn me down but I'm slated to stick around another thousand years. So here's the word of the Lord: Cough up that bone, have another ice cream cone and get that beer out of your ear. I fear you're not welcome here.

TALE OF A LOST ESTATE

How much has changed, how much rearranged since you last were here, since you disappeared, just as you feared you would. How easily, legally, your trust was violated. What you stipulated was negated. In death you were eliminated.

Although you did suspect what would happen next, there was no use trying, no point in crying over what you could not prevent as you lay there dying. It was God's intent you be sent where there's no money to be spent. The reason Heaven is so heavenly is because it has no economy. There's no get rich obsession, no fear of recession or depression or need for a confession for committing crimes of passion. or bending laws with hidden clause to cash in on deals where everybody steals because that's how the game is played, that's how the money's made.

The plans for your investments show intent to assure your heir's financial future. But they did not fit in with plans of the kin who will win great portions of your fortune. Your gold, your stocks and bonds will be sold with bold disregard as visions of instant rewards influence their decisions.

And you lay there dying, silently sighing, knowing what lies ahead. The wealth you created soon will be down graded and the securities, all triple A-rated, will be traded and speculated. And dear old heart of gold Aunt Esther will just disappear in the closing graveyard of the Dow.

THAT'S WHAT IT IS ALL ABOUT

Of all the animals of creation none have a better reputation for increasing their population than the hare with it flair for copulation. Does Peter Rabbit ever take a vacation or is his habit of cohabitation a full-time occupation?

We can't really tell but the lady rabbits must well enjoy their participation in Peter's presentation of his private parts needed to pursue his art which, of course, relies on his initiation and her full cooperation and dedication.

God gave males with two legs and four and sometimes maybe even more the skill, the facility and the ability to reproduce their own kind, so they wouldn't have to find a reason or an excuse in or out of season to seduce the female of their species who otherwise would be occupied baking pies and washing dishes and diapers and tushy wipers.

Is this is all that fornication's for, to make more and more of what you were put on this earth for? Or is it also about a celebration of nativity and creativity and the proclivity of God's imagery and Man? The act, in fact, is also a gift, passed down from Adam and Eve, I do believe, for all God's children to have fun when day is done or early dawn allows time to let such things go on. It's for creation, true. But it's also a thing the sexes do and me and you and all the animals in the zoo and those who roam the forest free, live in a hole or in a tree, fly free or swim in the sea or any place I have omitted where creatures are committed to domesticity.

So that's part of what sex is all about. I figured it was time that you found out.

NO DELAY ON TOM DELAY

We went along with George and Dick, and on the quick; they made our nation sick. They stole our courts with all sorts of dirty tricks and made an hypocrisy of our Democracy. And now the GOP's about to steal the whole damn deal with the power and might of the religious right

Our Constitution as an institution may become the victim of an execution and our only solution must be a dilution of the not so grand underhand gospels of the GOP.

But that's not about to be. Free-wheeling, double-dealing newcomer bummers are hard at work to jerk this whole nation around with the overturn of what we've learned to be part of our legacy. The current leader of the pack is an over-blown Texas hack with heart of stone, who all on his own, is changing rules and slashing laws just because Tom DeLay wants it that way.

And while TD is on a spree changing rules to fit his scheme voters never seem to get it and so they let it happen and the dream of a nation free is shattered like it never mattered and we, the fools, shrug and say, "They're only rules."

Let there be no delay. Get get rid of Tom DeLay.

WILL IT BE HEAVEN OR HELL?

As I sit in the 7-11 waiting for the next bus to Heaven I know Satan will be waitin' at the Golden Gate to convince me hell's a better place to be. Heaven and hell are fighting over me. The devil knows I like it hot and that's why a cloudy spot is not the place for me.

St. Pete knows the heat in hell well from visitors who stayed there a spell and it's not like the Florida sun that toasts the bun but a blaze that rages night and day and there's no ocean breeze to ease the perspiration and frustration, no air conditioning or deep sea fishing. You'll turn into a lobster before the devil's through with you.

But the devil is a devilish guy. He's sly and he will try to lie to you about those clouds awaiting you. If your cloud rains and you complain your wings are wet, God will get annoyed with you.

Your water's needed down below to help Earth's flowers grow so just be nice and bear the sacrifice. And don't you cry when icy winds go flying by and freeze your nose and toes. It's the price you pay to repose on a comfy cloud when the sleet and snow go away.

But the final decision's up to you. Do you want heat perpetually or weather that's mostly heavenly? Hell's better if you have arthritis. Heaven's rains are no good for aches and pains, You'll slip and slide on sleet and snow just like you did when you were down below.

"Ah," says St. Pete, "Heaven can't be beat. What's a little sleet compared to heat, Snow will come and snow will go. but it's so heavenly green in between. And for what it's worth, your loved ones down on Earth will always say, 'Have a nice day' as you push the clouds away to let the sunshine through. They'll look to Heaven and smile right back at you."

I'VE CHOSEN TO BE FROZEN

Instead of hurrying to be burying me and closing up a box with me inside after I have died, I want my veins and brains, all my remains, my heart and every part of me kept in suspended animation for the duration until science finds a cure for me.

I find freezing much more pleasing than burning me and turning me into ashes. So ice my eyes, my lips, my hips, my thighs. my eyes and whatever else is part of the cadaver that was mine to use and abuse in this life that was loaned to me, but was not owned by me,

I don't desire to expire totally. I'm sure science will find a cure for what's killing me. I'm willing to go into a deep sleep until a new life keeps a date with me.

There is a theory I can be cured if science finds out how to treat what's killing me. It's a science called cryobiology. It disturbs not the ecology and is a solution to pollution. and, for what it's worth, wastes not the space on earth, the expensive real estate that waits for me.

Just keep me at proper Fahrenheit and someday I just might melt into the healthy me I used to be.

I BELIEVE

I believe when one bird sings it brings greetings from all birds that fly. I believe clouds in the sky are featherbeds where angels rest in their quest to do their best to ease the pain and warm the rain to nurture grain and sugar cane and everything that grows below and to slake the thirst of snakes and lakes and camels, too, and the likes of me and you.

I believe the gentle breeze can calm the seas, caress and ease the perspiration and frustration of an overheated civilization.

I believe intercourse, a magic, interactive force, for better or for worse, gives man and woman the ability to replicate so there will be more humanity when their lives of worth on Earth are through and they have better things to do in a place far off in outer space that waits patiently in an ever-after eternity.

I believe souls live on long after we are gone and carry on the good works they began during their life span and serve as an inspiration to a newborn creation to take our place when we surrender to the call of the Master of us all,

JUST ASKING

When I am lonely and alone my companion is my telephone 1-800s are there for me in answer to my inquire with offers too good to ignore from the on-line bargain store.

I ask questions endlessly. The cost, the cash-back guarantee Please tell me can I buy it on the installment plan? The deal is great, the price is right. Can you ship it overnight? If I don't like it will you take it back? And a lot more of that yackity-yack. What? You want my address? My e-mail and my IRS?. When was I born? And where? Does anybody really care? Do I like sports in jockey-shorts? Do I have sex, if so, what sorts?

Am I straight or am I gay or do I like it either way? Do I have something to confess? Answer NO or answer YES. If "NO" is how I replied, you ask what have I got to hide? I'll make a list and give it to my therapist.

VERTIGO HAS GOT TO GO

When your heart goes thump instead of thumpitythumpitythump and you suddenly get a clogging clump in the pump where there should be free sailing a seldom failing technique for those who are too weak and ailing is to stop in their tracks and relaxrelaxrelax and let the air swish in and the spinspinspin will go slowslowslow from head to toe and you can tell the vertigo where to go.

If you have complications with constipation on vacation at a location where a lack of Xlax compounds the situation a surefire solution to this violation of your constitution, known to make the problem pass, is a glass of prune juice. That will soon set you free of this malignancy. If that fails to rid what ails you, bran flakes can help significantly. This nature's medication works when others of noble intent end in gassy flatulent. Flakes can make you make and end the ache in your bummy tummy.

There is yet another idea you might try to resolve this dilemma: an enema All you need is a bucket of water, a rubber hose, a bar of soap and hope. You squirt the liquid in, let it begin to bubble and resolve the trouble. When you can't hold it anymore, relax and let it roar. Don't be in a rush to flush. There'll be more and more and more. When it's over, ah the peace that comes with release! Now check the menu, what's the fare? You'll be hungry enough to eat a bear.

A BALLOON IN JUNE

Once upon a day in June the world was wrapped in a big balloon and in July the heat began to fry this plastic sphere in the sky. By December there was nobody alive to remember if Earth ever existed although some insisted it did and others resisted this point of view.

There was no evidence something so immense could disappear in less than a year so those living on other planets all assumed that Earth was never here. How could this have been? There were no coffins to bury people in.
There was not a church or steeple or a prison packed with people, no Disney land or brand of beer or corner bars or Cuban cigars or signs that wars once were fought, not even a park or a parking lot.

There were no fossil remains or bits of brains or hearts or other body parts or donkey carts or rocket ships or planes to make long distance trips to foreign lands of which there were none, only an empty place in space going to waste. All evidence of Earth was erased by the burst of the balloon, the first in galactic history.

But there were a few scientists who believed that the people had been deceived and there truly was an earth that once was alive and thrived and was one day here in the empty atmosphere. And they advanced the possibility, no---the probability--- that the erosion and explosion of the planet Earth could happen once again.

That the sun, the moon and Mars and all the other stars, the satellites and days and nights and civil rights and blacks and whites and ice cream cones and chicken bones and pizza pies and ham on rye and big blue eyes and even girls and guys and nations we despise would realize that they were hastening their own demise and decided to compromise and there'd be peace at least between the West and East and the North and South would shut their mouth and go along and the whole wide world would sing a happy song and nothing else could go wrong.

But it could and did. One windy day every place in space, including the Milky Way and the Northern Lights and satellites and women wearing shorts and tights and even birds in flight and quite a lot of other stuff exploded in a giant puff and when all the rubble drifted away the remaining planets woke up each day knowing more blowing balloons were on the way.

ACES UP MY SLEEVE

Thunder struck the day I was born and Lady Luck adorned me with a life of notoriety, society honored me as a celebrity. I fear I will inevitably succumb and become a man of wealth and power and nothing more.

The reason for my fame? I inherited the name of a man who laid claim to a fortune founded by his father's father back in the old Gold Rush days playing a game of hocus-pocus poker with, I do believe, four aces up his sleeve.

That's how the family fortune started, and each succeeding generation, through crooked manipulation kept the money flowing, knowing how to cheat and steal and wheel and deal but doing it all quite legally. You see, it all comes down to me to continue the legacy of the founder of a dynasty, based on the theory, that thievery and trickery are the only fair way to play the game

To this day it's a mystery of high finance history how this dynasty began. My family owns a chunk of every industry that controls the world's economy. I do believe, my grand daddy had those four aces up his
sleeve.

But despite my descendants, my friends are kings and presidents, the movers and the shakers, the fakers and the takers, who dictate how and why a million people die and wars are won and lost and how much oil will cost and they manipulate the rates and feed the hates and dine on gold plated plates while non-white nations live on starvation rations where babies die of dysentery and old folks have no hopes and dreams, all because the laws are such that some have too much and some not enough and most nothing at all to call their own.

I want to atone for the sins my fathers wrought, to spend what little lime I've got, to help the have-nots share the pot with such as I whose world is based on chicanery and trickery and the misery of the enslaved
majority.

I've sold my soul for a pot of gold. I have no aces up my sleeve.

DR. HOKUSPOKUS' DIAGNOSIS

I had this pain that wouldn't go away. It got worse day by day. It focused on my tokus, traveled down my thigh to my toes then back to my sacroiliac, to here and there and everywhere and made a pit stop in my underwear. It even hurt me there. This embarrassing fact I must share.

It flipped and flopped and sometimes stopped to shop for blood to feed my brains, to jump-start my heart, to thwart an attack before heading back on another track bypassing my veins full of cholesterol with its goal my big fat jellyroll. The pain of which I complained and paid a doctor to explain was in there somewhere. He had to find a cure for this awful pain I could not endure.

I asked Dr, Hokupokus, specialist on toes and tokus, the spleen and everything in-between, "Can you give me a diagnosis and a prognosis on this pestiferous, onerous distress that I can't endure. Please, Dr. H, for goodness sake, end my ache and make a new man of me."

The doctor did what doctors do. He had me stick out my tongue. He said, "Say ah." He shook his head and mutterer "Nah." He listened with his stethoscope to my lungs and muttered "Nope." He asked questions, made suggestions, found no congestion. Suddenly, he slapped my back. I thought I'd have a heart attack. He gave a shrug, "A three-foot bedbug."

But be that as it may, a smashing cure was found that day. It was written up in journals this way: "The bug skittered up and down the patient's back. Often it paused to snitch a snack. Each bite caused pain. Bug slain by doctor's whack."

Now it's part of medical history.

IT ALL STARTED WITH A SNEEZE

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!"

ALONE WITH HER DIAL TONE

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.

THE ABSENTMINDED CONFESSOR

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.

WHAT ONCE WAS IS HERE NO MORE

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.

JUICES TO SEDUCE

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.

THE STORY OF JAKE THE APE

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.

TAXING TIME IS TAXING

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.

THE ZOO STORY

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.

ALL ABOUT WALLA WALLA YANKEE DOLLA

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.

IT'S SOMEWHERE OUT THERE

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.

A QUICKIE ABOUT MICKEY

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.

COUNTRY'S IN A FIX

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.

IT CAN HAPPEN

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

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