Wednesday, January 31, 2007



Will's wife was very ill. Sue knew she was dying. Will never saw her shed a tear, never heard her crying. He knew she'd given up. But in the quiet of the night he heard his dear wife sighing. In the days near the end she mentioned a friend who talked to God and she did, too.

Sue would nod and say God's name and claim she was waiting for a ship to take her on a trip to heaven. In her sleep, she'd melt into Will's arms and say, "I found a way we can live and love forever and a day."

That night, after Will had gone to sleep, she awoke, lay peacefully by his side and died. In her last request, Sue stated: "Dear Will, I wish to be cremated. Put my ashes in an urn and when it comes your turn to die have your ashes mixed with mine, add a little glass of wine, then we'll be together for all time."

Will vowed to do what Sue said and when he went to bed he placed the urn on his pillow next to his head, kissed it goodnight and cried, "I am not yet dead, but when I die I'll be with you." Then he'd take the nightgown she wore when she began eternal sleep, keep it at his side, hold it in his nightly dreams. The memory of Sue responded lovingly.

Friday was Sue's day to clean house. She had this tattered, faded blouse. It was silk, powder blue, had been through many a wash. "Oh my gosh." Will would say, "why don't you throw that rag away?"

Sue would smile. "No, I'll keep this 'rag' a while. I wore it the day we eloped. We had so many hopes and dreams. Most did not come true but..."

And Will replied, "Our love saw us through. But what has that got to do with this old blouse?"

"I use it when I clean house. It's filled with all our memories, good and bad, happy and sad, that got us through this life as man and wife. When I lay down to rest I hold the blouse to my chest. It talks to me. Perhaps you'll think me odd, but I know it is the voice of God."

When Sue told him this he kissed her lovingly, told her he understood. Sue placed the blouse to his ear. He could not hear the voice of God, but nodded and said with tear-filled eyes, "Yes, I do! God blesses me for loving you, and assures me He loves you, too, and waits for you."

What Will said was not true but it was not what God would call a lie, especially when He heard Sue cry and shed tears of gladness, not of sadness. She whispered, "God bless" and closed her eyes. Will heard her sighs, wondered if her time had come. God talked to Will, assured him this was not the end. "Do not fret, my friend. Her time will come, but not yet," God said. Finally, Sue died, ventured to the other side. Before she left to Will she said, "I'll wait for you;"

When he cleaned house as Sue used to do, her faded blouse was his dusting cloth. Each day he wiped her urn, said a prayer of grace, then returned it to its resting space. One day Will shut his eyes to pray, He reached for the urn. His grip slipped. The urn crashed to the flooShards of glass and Sue's remains scattered here, there and everywhere. Will knew he would soon be dead. Sue also knew and to Will she said. "No problem. Just sweep it up, glass and all, and leave it in a pile on the floor. Pour on a glass of wine and God will do the rest. I'll be just fine."

God mixed the ashes of Will and Sue. "And the urn too," she reminded God. He nodded and it was done. Sue and Will again were one. The love they made that night on the floor was better than it had ever been before.


Please God, do not let them endlessly autopsy me. Let me be in death a reasonable facsimile of what I was in life, a proud member of humanity.

It's said when you're dead you're dead. Let that be the suml of me. Don't wonder what will become of me.

Why did I die? Did I die naturally or by the life-giving, life-taking knife of fatal post natal surgery? Did those invading me rob me of my dignity? In so doing, did the ensuing probe learn more than I yearn to know as I lay unprotected, injected, inspected, dissected, finally rejected for the body waiting patiently next to me?

What did my innate parts impart? My blood, my brains, my veins, my heart, my lungs, my reproductive genes? What did all the searching glean? Did surgery leave an ugly scar, evidence of events in peace or war? Will my parts remain a part of me or wind up in a jar?

Now that I am gone will I live on in microscopic history? The topic of a medical mystery?

Slicers. splicers, dicers of the flesh, be done with me. Set me free. No longer cut me, gut me, just shut me up, stitch me carefully, have a cup of brew or booze on me. Smoke your cigarette, suck your pipe, but not in front of me where I can smell or see. Nicotine was the death of me when I enjoyed such luxury.

The hour's late. My box awaits. My Master and my minister hear the eulogy of cliched praise. This just delays the ending of my days. Drop the lid. Nail it tight. Turn off the light. I have earned my right to sleep, unperturbed, undisturbed, throughout this endless night of nights.

Tuesday, January 30, 2007


Is it possible someday man will survive for an eternity, endure years of Walmart shopping, trips to Sears, perhaps to Gaps and other tourist traps and eating supersize fries and ten toppings pizza pies and winning the Nobel prize for inventing a cure for growing old?.

Will he be so clever that he'll ever live forever, never come down with the flu or other things most mortals do or take a wonder drug that kills the bug and keeps him wealthier and healthier than Methuselah on Medicare?

But what's the point of endless life that outlives all the lovers you knew when you were just a kid of ninety-two? Could you still choke on a chicken bone, a peach or cherry stone while prone, talking on the telephone licking an icecream cone? And when you stop to take a breath you stick the icecream in your ear and freeze to death.

This I know: I ain't sold on living long, knowing things can still go wrong like choking on my sweet's sarong or being bonged by a ding-dong singing a
rapper song. Even though I can't get sick a quirk of fate can do the trick. And while I wait at St. Pete's gate God turns me down and says He'll
see me in a thousand years. And here's the word of the Lord: "Spit up that bone, get that cone out of your ear. A klutz like you ain't welcome here."

You can have longevity. Me, I'll opt for brevity. And who can tell? Maybe hell will welcome me.

Monday, January 29, 2007


I've got this to say about DUBYA Doodoo, the dunce of D. C., the Horse's Ass of Texass, the precedent setting president whose assent was an event no fiction writer could ever invent.

He stole the store from Al Gore In two-zero-zero-zero, strutted like a hotshot Nero hero, set out to paint the town his favorite color---yeller---and turned the White House into a bordello where he prostituted his selected/unelected position to fulfill his mission to destroy democracy and replace it with GOP hypocrisy.

He disobeyed laws he himself okayed, played the fool, broke every rule in the books and chose schnooks and crooks, liars and deniers, deal makers, fakers and order takers and assorted sorts, including members of the Supreme and lesser "yessir, yessir" courts, to do anything he told them to.

There's nothing the Demander and mishandler of the troops wouldn't stoop to do to raise his plunging approval rates and re-convince the dupes that, since we're in a losing war of his choosing, we should be excusing his stupidity and do his bidding (he must be kidding) and ship more unwilling GIs to that thrilling paradise of Iraq knowing and few will be coming back except in body bags or boxes air fare free to receive medals posthumously.

And won't their loved ones, wives, daughters and sons, moms and dads be glad to welcome home their boy who died with patriotic pride and joy to keep our country terror free.

Three cheers for President George W. Bush, the Red, White and Blue and the good old YOU S A!


Could a war be waged in which no one dies? Instead of bullets and bombs, armies would use high tech "weapons" to incapacitate or disorient enemy forces long enough for them to be captured. Victory would be declared by the side that disabled the most enemy troops in a given battle. Scorekeepers approved by both sides would total up the comatose "victims" of opposing armies.

Wars would be waged with 21st Century weapons that beam high frequency sounds that bounce off the enemy's eardrums. This would cause them to hallucinate and admit defeat.

Another weapon would spray the enemy with non-lethal gasses to put the sniffing soldiers to sleep long enough to certify them as snoozer losers. Stun guns could be used to paralyze the opposition long enough for victors to strip them of watches, wallets and other spoils of war.

After the wiped-out warriors recovered from their non-lethal wounds they would be coerced into revealing enemy secrets. The enemy would be locked into torture chambers and compelled to listen to rap music 24 hours a day until they cracked. If that didn't work, they would be fed Boston baked beans until they exploded and begged for a double ration of Alka Seltzer.

The woundless war could backfire (pardon the expression) if both sides used the same disabling weapons at the same time. Soldiers on both sides would fall all over each other. Even the scorekeepers would be affected.

By the end of the battle, there would be nobody left standing to count or separate the winners from the losers. They'd all probably be sound asleep dreaming of the good old days when war was war and a man wasn't a man unless he was assured his democratic right to kill or be killed.

Thursday, January 25, 2007



I work in a cubbyhole office with a desk, a chair, little more, on the the floor above a discount store where I keep track of what goes out, what comes back. When work is slack, I have a small window to look through.

What I see is majesty. A bright green lawn, an old oak tree greeting squirrels lovingly, a bed of leaves to rest upon, birds singing at break of dawn, wild flowers whiling away hours waiting for Spring showers that will be late this year. There's a bench, a seat to ease tired feet. A swing, a slide, on Sunday morn, a free pony ride. A life-like swan carved in stone stands all alone in a pond of its own. All this will soon be gone. In its place will rise---a parking lot.

A swarthy crew of blacks arrived with all the gear they need to make this garden spot disappear. A dump truck waits to haul the greenery and other debris away---the grass, the flowers, the old oak tree, the sculptured swan, the pond where it stands majestically. The memories of initials carved in the trunks of trees, where children played and old folks stayed almost till dark. They loved this little park. It was their place of peace to schmooze and discuss the news of the troubled world across the sea. It was their place to be, their beloved sanctuary.

When folks heard the park would become a parking lot, they were mad as hell. "Absurd!" they cried. "A terrible thing! They'll bring trucks and busses in. Trash, beer cans. Place for bums to hide at night, JUST AIN'T RIGHT!"

They knew old folks lacked the power to halt progress. "What about the press?" someone said. "My grandson works..." A reply: "Forget it, you old fool. He just delivers papers after school." And: "We can holler but they don't care. It's the all mighty dollar what it's all about." They grumbled as they watched the park disappear. And so did they, wasting away in wheelchairs. One by one they forgot. And turned to rot.

Couple days later I looked out my window. You'd never' know a park had once been here. All that was left was the swan, lying on its side on top of the limbs from the old oak tree. "Damn thing weighs a ton," the crew boss said. "I'd like to smash it to smithereens."

"Can I have the swan?" I asked timidly. "That bird means a lot to me."

"Don't know why you'd want that monstrosity. But get it out before I take the sledge and crunch it up."

I took the swan and got the blacks to haul it to my place on the edge of town. They lovingly set it down in my yard, refused the money I'd agreed to pay. They loved the swan just like me.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007


Hey, King George, it's a little late for you to care about the state of the state that just can't wait to give you the gate. Instead you should fret about your fate which, as of late, ain't looking so great. And what about the state of your mind which, obviously, you can't find. But never mind, don't look anywhere because you won't find it there.

You'll find that elusive mind or brain or whatever you call it beneath your hair and it ain't going nowhere where intelligence takes up residence. But there's hope for you when you are through doing what you do-do. The job of town clown waits for you in the Texas zoo.

You'll look so cute in your monkey suit, wearing your tarnished King George crown while your world comes tumbling down and the GOP says go pee on the WMD you found hidden behind your floppy ears that hear what you wont hear here. And just remember, the end of your career is growing SNEER.

Saturday, January 20, 2007


Suzie Q knew she was born in a zoo. But born to who? She had to have a family, a mom and dad like humans do. She knew this was so. What she didn't know was how did she manage to grow to be this monstrosity she became with just a first name and an initial. It all sounded so superficial, so artificial.

Day by day, she sits exposed in her cage aware human apes have clothes to wear and no one dares to stare. She reasons, at least, if we wore T-shirts and underwear, we wouldn't be so shamefully bare, with all our parts on display for people to see endlessly.

We look at them dressed fit to kill, they look at us, if you will. in all our crude nudity. Why do they do this while exercising their modesty?

Why is there such disregard for the features of we, the fur-covered creatures of humanity? Man's hypocrisy causes animosity between us and they. The human mammals say we're just a bunch of dumb animals. This attitude just exposes their stupidity.

So what, they say, if we trammel on their senseless sensitivities, their propensity to share the right to modesty? Humanoids avoid exposing their own sexuality and treat ours with frivolity and the impossibility that we, too, have integrity, odd though humans think that might be.

We apes and monkeys, even deer and donkeys, gnus and kangaroos and all the others in and out of zoos can no longer be the flunkies of the human junkies addicted to things like pot, exotic narcotics and all that rot.

We animals demand our share of civil rights. We so-called dumb animals are not so dumb. We, too, shall overcome!


Jake the Snake was having trouble of late. He had a problem with his prostate. For years he didn't know he had one. It turns out he had a bad one.

The symptoms were undeniable. Even reptiles are liable to spring a leak. But leak a lake in a week? Jake went to see wise old Dr. Owl, a specialist in bladders and bowels, When he related his tale of woe about how he had to go and go and was flustered by the flow from his prostate, Dr. Owl started to hoo and howl with glee. Finally, he said: "For goodness sake, you know snakes can't pee, so what need thee for a prostate anyway?"

"All I know, I've got this flow, my bladder's full, I've gotta go." Saying that Jake let go a flow and drenched the owl from head to toe which then emitted a most un-owl howl and drowned in the lake Jake had made with his leaking prostate.

Even God couldn't explain the drain but he hired Jake all the same to leak around God's Ark, parked high on a hill ready to sail with all hands and feet aboard. God gave the word: "Go forth and leak a creek." Jake did that and more from shore to shore.

The creek became a stream, the stream a lake and, landagoshen, at last an ocean that covered the wide countryside from "here to thar" and thar was far from here, enroute to the Garden of Eden where Jake achieved a change in history and Adam and Eve left to start breedin' what the unpopulated world God created was needin'.

And Jake's prostate brought it all about.

Thursday, January 18, 2007


Even if the surge succeeds---and Dubya sorely needs a victory to save him from disgrace and a kinder place in history---they're dealing with a man who nearly bankrupt our democracy and caused widespread death, desolation and devastation to an oppressed Middle Eastern nation.

Even if Bush eventually proves the doubters and pull-outers wrong, and Iraq emerges strong and stands tall for a while before its inevitable fall to fanatic forces determined to have their way, the question remains, where were the brains on Earth who thought an illegal war was worth the sacrifice? Bush, Cheney, Condalessa Rice, and a few other saps, perhaps, but not those who take a more realistic view of the times we're living through.

Why don't they teach in schools that war's for fools, that it won't change rules in force for centuries in lands who wage jihad in the name of their Muslim God? And that we, and billions who embrace humanity, place our faith in simply being free.

You can't convince with guns and bombs, with wholesale murder and misery, that that's not the way the world was meant to be. We should stop killing. trying to sell our democracy, which isn't as democratic as it used to be. to people who hate the USA even more than they hate each other or the way of life they live today.

The United States has, for too long, tried to force other nations to be just like us. Democracy will only work in a country when its people want it desperately and are willing to embrace it wholeheartedly.



If you have complications with constipation on vacation at a location where a lax of X-lax compounds the situation a surefire solution to this violation of your constitution, known to make the problem pass, is prune juice in a glass. That should free you of this malignancy. If it fails what ails you, bran's the way to go. 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's yet another I suggest you try that might resolve this dilemma: an enema; All you need is a bucket of water, a rubber hose, a bar of soap and hope. You squirt 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. Or a horse, of course.

Tuesday, January 16, 2007


(Another short-short.)

I hardly spoke above a whisper. Once my voice crisp, I became a lisper. I muttered, stuttered, droned in monotone, stumbled, stammered, grammar warranted correction. My attempt to make a point was out of joint. Result, I insulted an adult audience that came here to hear what I had to say.

Then I met Mike who made me eloquent. Who sent my words, once boring, soaring to the rafters. When I heard laughter and applause I knew my cause was understood. That was good.

Would you like to know who's this Mike who made sure my words were heard loud and clear above the crowd, who helped me mesmerize and hypnotize, seem so wise with every thought I sought to get across. I was the boss, never at a loss. I had the crowd in the palm of my hand. I was in full command.

Mike was better than a man He was my own magic microphone. Once I dreaded words that swirled in my head. Now my points needed no explanation. I was a sensation. Mike translated what I stated. I was elated.

Suddenly my phonetic fame came to an end, Mike cut out. No doubt, afflicted with an electronic autistic sickness. It was a mess, Mike and I became depressed. It was tragic. He lost his magic, But I had to go on even though my fans were gone.

They sent Mike to the Institution of the Electronic Elocution. Hoped they'd come up with a solution. They tried to restore his occupational pronunciation. He couldn't think. His vowels were out of sinc. They tried mimicry. All sorts of gimmickry. Finally the school agreed Mike lost his skill to instill a thrill in an audience. He lost his ability to throw my voice.

Mike, the electronic ventriloquist, and I were banned from lecture tours. Mike retired, was unwired. I was fired, got a job announcing trains. I was a big success. I spoke but nobody understood. And that was good. The trains always arrived on time and left on sked. Or so it's said. But that is how I earned my bread.

Sunday, January 14, 2007


When science becomes a fact and the inexact is exactly accurate, how will we then separate fantasy from reality, the empirical of God's miracles? Will it someday be a sin to give medicine credit when cures begin to kick in
because the laws of God make it so?

When prayer can clear polluted air and preachers can grant absolution to those who trash the atmosphere, will we need exterminators and other eliminators to do away with bugs and prey who get in the way of a sunny bug-free day at the beach?

Will we no longer need wonder drugs when a tablespoon of sun on a cloudy day will wipe away all body pain, will a cure for cancer be a glass of milk three times a day with cookies on the side to tide you over till the milk kicks in?

Will nicotine keep lungs clean and caffein help you sleep at night? Will we read by the light of fireflies? Will a mini-earthquake shake you to make sure you're awake, then go back to sleep as the sun creeps back into the sky after bidding the moon beddiebye? Will a flake of snow on the tongue three times day keep you young and full of play?

Will a full moon still enhance romance and help you remember what you forgot about making love in a hot affair? And as you share each thing you dare to do will you learn to care as true lovers do?

Science is a wonderful thing. In time it will bring a year 'round spring, but that can be good or bad depending on the ending of the warming trend that's destroying our ecology. But science will probably find away. And if and when all else fails...PRAY!


Here's the scoop: The stoop, full of poop, sends more troops to Baghdad with all his arrogance behind the zipper in his pants, As he prances and dances around sounding like a falldown clown this king who's lost his crown doesn't realize Baghdad's drowning in the red blood shed by GI and Iraqi dead.

What this bushy buffoon soon will see he has many an enemy. Ironically, the only friend he's got is we. the guys who invaded him illegally. Now, after more than three years, it appears war will go on until all our money's gone. While we waste billions helping Iraq rebuild its weary war-torn economy, bombers kill at will, slay away and make the undertaker's day.

Who do we, even bigger fools than GWB, entrust our democracy? You read about it in the daily press, president says that, president says this, he has a plan to get us out of this mess. Just send more GIs to die and all will be just apple pie OK. The insurgency will see the beefed up force, of course, and shrink away.

Oh how they fear that master of disaster, that decider of dividers. They'll send in the suiciders with bombs around their gut and blow our troops in one fell swoop all the way back to granny Bush's chicken soup.

The trouble is we backed Bush, the hack, attacked the wrong dictatorship and let real enemies with WMDs alone to play with their atomic toys and build more bombs to blow us all to dumb-dumb kingdom's come. Now, with Iraq on its back and our armed forces stagnated in the war Bush created, Iran and all the rest are ready to test the weakened weekend west forced to depend on reservists to fight a war they're untrained for.

As our army grows thin and recruitment's a no win, we're a nation led by an unelected psychopath driven by wrath who will take a bath and we'll provide the soap so that dope can come out clean as our war machine breaks down out of town. Our foes and fair weather friends know this is so. With whom will they cast their lot when things get hot? Not with us. You can bet on that!

Thursday, January 11, 2007


In a world that's upside down, down is up and up is down. Right is wrong and wrong is right and day is night and the clown wears a frown to let each girl and boy know his heart is filled with joy.

No is yes and yes is no and so-so means it's really so. North is South and East is West and those who know that they don't know, know South is cold and North is hot and a little means a lot. Black is White and White is Black and birds do not take flight but give it. It is true that truth's a lie and behind each lie there lies a truth.

Good is bad so it's bad to be good and that's the way it should be because should is shouldn't and shouldn't is not what it seems to be in a world where waves of sand surge from the sea that calmly waits patiently on the shore to see what the sand which is the sea plans to do seasonly.

But seasons for some up-down reason are opposite from what they used to be. And I am You and You are Me and We are They and They are We even though that's not what it's unsupposed to be. And since "unsupposed" is not a word you ever heard I deem it means what it doesn't mean.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007


I say this because it must be said. If this president goes ahead and sends 30,000 troops to Iraq, more than four score will be dead. This I dread. When it happens what will Dubya do? Sneer from ear to ear and whine: "You said come up with something new. I did. I tried. Now are you satisfied?"

Of course the force will dwindle again. If he's Commander in Grief he'll ask for still more men on and on until he's gone. The Democrats will inherit the mess of this less than sane ex-president, proud of the fact he destroyed Iraq and the USA by his illegal, ill-advised unwise winless war.

Perhaps he'll be impeached, thrown in jail like all guilty of high crimes should for what they've done and Bush has done it to everyone day by day in every way throughout the USA. And to former allies, too.

There's just one way to end this war. If we're accused of losing it, admit it, be done with it. Iraqis want us out at any cost. Let's face it, we've lost, paid the price. Billions, maybe trillions, down the sewer. And what about the GIs who died or are still alive and suffer with disabilities they'll have until they die?

This I predict, if we admit we're licked---just like we were in Vietnam---there'll be unrest, civil uprisings, murder, all the rest. But that's happening NOW. Somehow Bush doesn't see it. Can't believe it. Can't conceive it. But surprise, GWB. Use your eyes. Let it sink into that dimwit brain. There it is, right as rain. More than three thousand GIs slain!

Once we get out no doubt fury will run its course. Then opposing forces will get together, sick of all the dying, denying they have a mutual need to live without people like Bush to bleed them blind. They'll find a way to put their guns and bombs away and say OK, give peace a try. Otherwise, we all die.

So admit your guilt up to the hilt. Just look at what you built. Error upon error. YOU caused the terror. It should dog you till you die. Goodbye. George W. Bush. The world has had its fill of you!


March, march, march our boys are off to war. How many will return? Thousands left behind to grieve. Will we ever learn?

Any war, big or small, leaves a scar on us all, wounded in the heart and soul at home or on the battlefield, confronted by the enemy because a coldhearted man who stole the presidency will not yield while more and more GIs die without knowing when a bullet or a bomb will come their way bearing an old cliche: "Have a nice day."

Who starts a war? And why? Those with power have dollar bills for brains. A greedy investor complains the bottom line's declining. Guns and planes made in anticipation of an altercation has not materialized. Nations disagree, threaten hostilities, then settle their dispute. Nobody shoots, not a shot is fired.

"That's not why we made campaign contributions," a war hungry giant of industry declares. "Where's our power over the president? Our bucks were meant not for peace but to start debate that generates idiotic. patriotic hate that negates negotiations and leads to war between two sovereign nations. We've got the guns of war to sell. Let peace promoters go to hell.

"Investors will cheer when they see our profits for the year. So we've got to get the bullets flying, soldiers dyeing, their leaders defying, neither side trying to end the war. More guns, more tanks, more planes. Overwhelm the enemy. That's the only solution they see. We agree. It's what investors cry for. It's what soldiers die for. Deciders must be on our side. Or else."

"Or else what?" a lone voice wants to know.

"Or else we'll support the side that has no pride and needs our dough to keep their show on the go. They'll play it our way or we won't pay. That's the good old American Way!"

The crowd shouts out loud: "Three cheers for profits and prosperity! Long live liberty. Fight to the death until victory. God bless the good old American Way!"

Sunday, January 07, 2007


IF there had never been a dictator or a czar, a Mussolini, an Ayatollah Khomeini, or any other obscene, war-mad meanie, never been a Napoleon Bonapart or any other foreign upstart, never been a fascist or any sort of anti-democratic fanatic. history would be less erratic.

If there'd never been a Hitler, Stalin, a Ho Chi Minh or Idi Amin or sinning at the world's beginning, a Castro, a Tito or Pol Pot who wrought a lot of misery during their brief moments in history, it's conceivable there'd been less evil. It's believable.

If there'd never been a sick Millosevic, a Tito, a Sohito or Benito (OK so I named him twice) or a Ho Chi Minh who got constipated eating too much rice, how nice the world might be today.

If there'd never been a Juan Peron on the throne, there'd never have been a hit musical named "Argentina" not remembered by those who never saw the no show show. If Marcos, Franco and Mau Zedong had not come along to be strong men for very a short while their vile style of dictatorship would not even be a blip on the script of history. And what about Saddam? We had him and let him get away and then had to nab him again during the Iraq war, which would not have been if the court had let Gore win.

Fascism, Communism, Totalitarianism, Nazism, all attempts at absolute power, met defeat in the final hour of insane reigns. We omitted a few who also should have been committed to where evil men can do no wrong. The list is long. It could go on and on. But enough's enough. Thank God they're gone.
We've saved this blot on history for last on the list. You know who. George Dubya, of course, the losing horse in the human race.

Saturday, January 06, 2007


In the days before Medicare and Medicaid, if you got sick you got well quick or stayed ill until you paid your bill. If you were poor or broke there was Welfare but the care was not so hot, a shot and sympathy's all you got. To pay the doc many hocked or pawned jewels or tools or sponged on relatives and friends.Then you ended up owing them.

If you called the doc he'd arrive in his black Cadilac. He seldom came a second time if your check bounced at the bank. That's the way it was then in the pay as you go medicine plan. There were physicians who had a mission to fulfill even if you couldn't pay your bill. They were dedicated, stayed at your side until you died.

There was aspirin, the drug of choice, and now illegal heroin. Penicillin eased pain and reduced the number slain by the enemy in World War II. In the 50s two vaccines came on the scene that, as we know, knocked out the foe to young called polio. Other miraculous medications. wonder drugs and future cures were sure to come. This led to specialties to treat disease, keep us healthy, make doctors wealthy, provide relief beyond belief. They prevent or cure to some extent illnesses that once sent patients to all sorts of physicians later, than sooner to morticians.

When Medicare was proposed medics opposed it vigorously. They feared government would take sole control of their profession, lead to socialized medicine. Did this lead to a Welfare State? That's a matter of debate. MDs feared, foolishly. it would affect their fee. Their wealth has grown enormously.

M&Ms of medicine---Medicare and Medicaid---don't just keep us well, they swell practices as more patients hope to be cured, reassured they're insured. Everybody benefits. It's a boon for doctors---check waiting rooms---for patients, for the pharmaceutical industry, the economy. We're living longer, getting stronger. We all win with M&M.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007


The warming of the planet is more alarming than we know, yet if politicians and congressional commissions told us so, straight out without distortions panic of immense proportions would replace blind acceptance that keeps the masses suspiciously in tow. Scientists insist the threat is true. But who believes those who really know? Do you?

While the world may be on trial we prefer denial as a way to cope and hope what many fear will disappear in time to celebrate the passing of another year. The bells will ring, The Times Square ball will fall. There will be happy cheers. Celebrants will wait to sing and dance, to pour the booze and spread the news of happy times to come, Drums will roll and every soul will welcome in a brand new year. That's how it will be---hopefully.

If all goes according to man's plan, on the morn of December thirty-one the sun will shine in a cloudless sky, the weather will be warm or cold or in between and the air will be fresh and clean, promise of a coming eve of revelry with hangovers waiting in the wing. But everything will be just fine as another day of bright sunshine gets set to usher in a brand new year soon to begin.

As the day wandered on, beyond the dawn, puffy clouds tinged with gray appeared and would not go away. But they could not dim the anticipation of a night of celebration. Yet far off in an angry sea waves heaved higher than seamen believed they'd ever seen. Water spouts miles high and miles wide took ships and fish and human debris on a roller-coaster ride. The air turned cold as the day grew old and foretold of death soon to be on land and sea.

On shore an intermittent chill moved in, the sky turned black as tar, the moon and stars went to sleep and a blanket crept over the sky as the whole world slept and wept. And as the witch's brew grew, doubters overwhelmed with fear, asked God, "Is it true? Is the end near? Will armageddon soon be here?"

Suddenly a blast occurred. No-one heard for there were none to hear. There would be no new year.

God sat on His throne all alone and watched the world disappear.