Friday, April 27, 2007


Minnie was skinny, Matt was fat. She was a cat, he was a rat. How could two be more opposite than that? But they happened to meet in a hat they found on the street and after a chat fell in love and that was that.

Matt was smitten with this furry kitten and they proceeded to breed which is what creatures do. But Minnie, forlorn, mourned, "Where will we live when our babies are born?"

"No problem with that," said Matt the rat. "We'll live in the hat."

"Wow!" meowed Minnie. "I never thought of that."

So they moved in and made the hat home, but soon came a man with a head as bare as a bear's derriere. He picked up the hat, put it on his dome and they were evicted from their new home. But wait! Their fate was a about to get better, They moved into a moth-eaten sweater in a Goodwill store, made love in a glove, took a rest in a vest, a snooze in a pair of old Army shoes.

They soon had a family of forty or more and cats, rats, bats and gnats took over the store. There were ants in the pants, flies wearing ties and all sorts shared shirts, skirts and shorts. The store got crowded, but they didn't lose heart. There's always Sears, Target and especially Wal-Mart.


Is it fair or realistic to call a human being a statistic when he or she are destroyed by flood or fire or other acts of sudden deadly impact? One moment a living, giving human being of worth, the next part of a mass of rubble, a tiny part of crumbling earth.

The victim, not someone of fame, but an individual with a name, with a family and friends and someone who had been depend upon for counsel and care, who was always there to share in their joy and despair.

The dead are not just numbers on a chart. They were bodies with a beating heart. They once cared and shared. They once were real. They could hurt. They could feel. They could laugh. They could cry. But they are no longer here to ask God why He had chosen them to die.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007


I woke from hibernation in anticipation of the end of my winter constipation, dreaming of a dish of catfish pie, a trout making out, a perch on its way to church. a herring wearing its birthday suit.

I'm just a hairless, careless bear sleeping in my underwear. I share my den, now and then, with an old billy goat who's sound asleep in my cherished, bearish furry coat, snoring like a motor boat. You'd think, at least, the beast would rise. do his thing and light a fire so I could ding-a-ling without the spray freezing on the way from here to there in the lair we share.

But the goat could not care less if I go coatless. He got up, stretched, scratched and kavetched, ate an empty baked beans can, gnawed on a wooden leg he stole from a beggar man, ran off yelling, "Catch me if you can!"

Being an old bear bare except for underwear I could not take the cold and this I told to the wise old owl. The old coot started to hoot and howl as the goat galloped by with Lady Godiva on his back.

"If she can make it naked you'll just have to take it," laughed the owl. The bear gave out a growl, ate the owl, then the goat. Now Godiva rides on his back and wears his underwear and the bare bear's hotter than ever before.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007


This nation and the world need Al Gore more now than ever before to lead us back to sanity and humanity from the senseless, defenseless ways of one man's craze to wage a war at any cost to retaliate against the 9/11 attack.

The selected/unelected president Bush chose Iraq as the target of his attack. Why? He pushed America into a no-win war, based on barefaced lies and duplicity, Republican hypocrisy and greed unjustified by need for oil that sloshes deep in Iraq's sandy soil.

True, by Bush definition, Iraq was and may be again an evil empire. But that's not what fueld Dubya's desire to single out this doubtful dictator and charge him as the instigator of the first invasion of our nation in modern times. There were others guilty of the crimes that brought the Twin Towers down. But not Saddam Hussein who met the fate of those who dictate---dead and buried in the oil-filled ground.

Although a dictator---and what leader in the Middle East is not?---Hussein was not to blame. There were other fascist regimes, logically, but they did not fit the George Bush psychology to pick an easy to defeat enemy.

But Bush and his brainless trust were dead wrong. The long war goes on. More than 3,000 GIs mourned, scorned by Bush who let them die for God knows why. Thousands wounded, disabled for life. And innocent Iraqis share the strife, thousands of loved ones dead who shed blood needlessly.

The time will soon come for Americans to decide. Trust the GOP, Bush and Cheney and all the rest. Or do what's best and let our troops come marching home!


Once intercourse was the only source of creation. Without it there never could have been a population. It took a sperm and ovary for a gal and guy to romanticize and fertilize. This was true of every creature on land and sea, in the sky or where ever two would relate, mate and copulate.

The procedure can take place in bed during a romantic rendezvous, on a beach, in chair or anywhere two decided to do what lovers do. It can happen in a car, in an SUV where parking's free or the meter's filled to capacity. It takes some more time, some less. Premature ejaculation provides greater opportunity for post penetration exploration.

That was then. This is now. Things somehow are not the same. Ain't it a shame! Today there's no need for assignation to achieve impregnation. A well-chosen frozen sperm's an astute substitute for a go-go romeo. If it's the lady's wish a mix in a petri dish can fulfill her fondest wish. What's next? She can even choose the sex.

There are pills to turn couples on, to stimulate the drive, to make the act come alive, to add jazz to the jive. You can spend passion the old fashioned way or let modern science do what you had in mind. You'll find, in the end, it will all come out the same.

Monday, April 23, 2007


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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, April 22, 2007



One day in kindergarten our teacher, Miss Grace, she of the smily face, said, "Who wants to play pretend?" Every kid did except just one, hostile, troubled lad. She called on the girl with the cute little curl waiving excitedly. "Let's play family," she said. "I'll be mom and.. ."

The boy jumped up and said defiantly, "I'll be dad!"

About half the class started to laugh. Miss Grace silenced them with the slap of her hand. "I don't understand," she said.

"Because he ain't got no dad! Never had!" The children pointed at the boy mockingly.

"So what," said Tommy angrily. He held his hands over his ears to drown out the jeers and ran, sobbing from the room. "Shame on all of you!" the teacher said. She was mad not so much at the class as at herself. She'd failed to see there had to be a reason for Tommy's hostility.

When she looked at Tommy he hung his head. His eyes were red, filled with tears. "Talk to me," she said.

"It ain't so. I had a pa. Now he's dead, Died the night I was borned." He mumbled, stumbled on a word seldom heard from one so young. "They said he'd did suah-cide. Why'd he do that, Miss Grace? Kids said their mom told them I weren't his kid. And the preacher said he'd done a sinful thing an' would burn in hell. What did he do so bad? Ain't killin' yerself the worstest sin my dad could do?"

Miss Grace did not know what to say. She held Tommy and prayed the tears would go away.


His Army buddies called the camp K-9 "Mac the Snack" because this chow hound hound is always found around the Mess Hall begging for a bite to eat, a scrap of meat; some pork and beans, a bone or two, left over stew, even the mess cook's GI shoes, smeared with gravy heel to toe.

Dogs lap up any kind of crap, stale or fresh, that has flesh or fat attached. Cats eat rats between catnaps. seldom mice caught in traps. Cats prefer the old fashioned way. Walk and stalk the prey. Cat and mouse all the way. That's the only way to play. For a change of diet they down a dash of catfish hash.

GIs go for pizza pies, french fries, burgers supersize, washed down with Cokes and smokes, telling dirty jokes using words animals heard but found absurd.

Dogs howl and growl, cats purr and meow and that's how they talk about their chow, the handouts they got and like a lot.

Fat ass brass dine on wine and T-bone steaks, creamy pies and chocolate cakes, smoke big cigars and talk about wars and killing enemies and brag about their victories.

War is fine for canines. They eat their fill, aren't forced to kill, go over the hill at will and if or when they come back again they won't be tossed in the pen to serve time for their AWOL crime. Maybe they'll be in the doghouse instead of the Big House, but that's OK. That's just where they want to stay.

How do you punish a cat who flees, comes back with fleas and a family? Give her a feline fine, ten lives in the pen when cats have nine. And while she's serving time, where do you find a litter sitter in a condition to provide nutrition to a dozen newborn pissin' kittens?

Thursday, April 19, 2007


Whenever Dubya takes a trip, from here to there or over there, to thereabouts to spout the same old sauerkraut, to defend Iraq or scratch the back of some old party hack, he wastes the fuel to try to fool or trick the body politic.

He passes gas while riding first class on the short trip by car or chopper to a waiting few who wave and cheer while he sneers from ear ear to ear. To boo's taboo. I thought you knew.

Like every president, past and present, and probably future, too, he's a phony, full of baloney hooked on ceremony. He waves to crowds who are not there or are there to stare but do not care and despise his lies and attempts to disguise his intent to appear presidential when he has the mental capacity of a flea.

In his privates moments of regret he asks himself:

"Why did I get caught in this net of intrigue? Maybe it's true what they say, I'm out of my league and belong on a has-been team of losers where I'd star just by being who I are---or is it who I am? Oh yeah, it's who I is. I is the son of a Bush and he was a failyour just like me.

"I've bin a fool since grammy school where I flunked historee, So it ain't no misstaree what histoorians will think o' me. I learnt the alfybet up to C, the grade I got in jografee. Rithmatick I learnt reel kwick. Recountin' made me what I is today. Prissidint of the YOUASSA."


During our younger days we seniors worked, slaved and saved what we could so we would enjoy life more when we kissed sixty-four goodbye and qualified for full Social Security.

When we ceased making a living, we assumed we'd spend less time giving to our government and more time enjoying retirement. We'd be earning less but have the government's largesse to fall back on when savings and investments weren't sufficient to pay the bills until our wills divided up our estate. Great!

We learned, to our dismay, it doesn't work that way. We've got to return a portion of what we earned but didn't spend as we went toward the end of life, leave behind our inheritance and go six feet down to a resting ground on the edge of town.

While we're still here we have to pay taxes on what we never spent on beer and other booze, fancy cars and a world-wide cruise, gold chains and assorted aches and pains not covered by Medicare or all the supplemental plans with exclusions the fast talk stalkers didn't tell us about when we took the policies out.

On top of that, depending on the yields and dividends from stocks and bonds and cash in the bank you have to pay a percent of every cent you never spent foolishly living lavishly in vacation villas on shores by seas with ocean breeze and luxuries, dining on fats and calories and all the high cholesterol your MD told you to avoid on your last well enjoyed spending spree.

Of course, the government's aware of you and the share that will come due when the IRS audits you. So if you've still got time, spend every dime on this and that, grow old and fat and be sure to be poor. And then don't give a tinker's damn. Uncle Sam will take care of you.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007



If you're sixty-five plus and are trapped in this SS Mess, fuss and cuss, get on the bus, you're one of the Army of Us us denied the right you might expect---security in your years of obscurity in a world that may deny the dough you knead to feed you and your spouse, stay in your house, pay for medications, vacations, dissipations, aggravations and/or unexpected expectations.

As a reward for working hard to earn enough to tough it out, living on beans and sauerkraut, seldom steak in this in-out land of doubt trying to make out and pay bills, a few cheap thrills, expensive pills, ills that drain your pocketbook, you are forced to pay a lot of X-lax income tax for what you once had but now ain't not got.

Income doesn't match outgo, but you know you owe because the IRS told you so. So you pay until you go. After you're dead your estate may be in the red and the butcher, baker and undertaker will have to sue your Maker for what they're due. So what else is new?
* * *
THIS PS IS FOR THE IRS AND CONGRESS: You have no right to take a bite out of what seniors scrimped and slaved to save so, in their maturity, they'd have the security to survive alive when they became too old to earn the gold to afford what's sold for their consumption. By rights it's theirs to call their own.

But you have the nasty audacity and the gumption and assumption to rob their nest-egg? They beg you, reconsider what you do to those who supported you so you could rob and steal from the public weal to satisfy your need to feed your greed, In stead of taxing the near dead, get it from the super rich and every BUN OF A SITCH out to snitch what Washington robbed without a gun.

So when those of fading mind are confined to a box or cremated as is stated in their "living" will, they will know they won their rights before receiving their final rites.

Spend it all before you go so your outgo is not used to pay for someone-else's brand new car, bizarre, Cuban cigar, an undeclared, illegal war or even a Hershey's chocolate bar.

Sunday, April 15, 2007


I know Dubya did not declare, he just went in there and invaded Iraq with no plans to give the nation back after our victorious attack released them from the grip of dictatorship. At least, that's what the beast of Pennsylvania Avenue said his GIs would do. It's the same old song. Dummy Dubya was wrong, all wrong!

I don't have to tell you what you already know, but it's a fact, Iraq does not want USA-style democracy. They just want their country back. They want us out NOW, no matter how we choose to do it. As far as they're concerned, we should take our planes, tanks and guns and every mother's GI son still alive, stop all this jabber and jive, and let them deal with the mess the USA got them into.

When we pull out no doubt the civil war they're raging will escalate. There'll be more blood baths as wrath meets wrath on the path to all-out suicide. But so what! What have we or they got to lose? Violence is on the rise and we're still there. Maybe we're the cause. Our pull out could be the cure. Nothing's for sure. That's the chance you take for a make or break decision.

If or when war subsides both sides might get together, weather the wounds of war, moderate their animosities and seek a peace that just might work. But the longer Bush waits and debates the pros and cons the war goes on and, day by day, more lives are gone, more trillions spent, the longer we must do without the necessities and, yes, the luxuries, that made our nation great.

I grieve the thousands dead in Iraq, the innocents whose lives were lost, whose loved-ones will pay the cost in lifetimes of grief and misery. I cry each time more GIs are wounded or die fighting this useless war based on a lie, not for peace but to increase the flow of oil from the sandy soil of Iraq to the tanks of yanks who ply the highways and byways of the USA.

But the blame for war should not be borne alone by those who own gas guzzling cars and fancy homes which burn the fuel that rules the lives of lands far from the sands where it is drilled and both sides are killed to build the bottom lines of liars, buyers and suppliers, beneficiaries of war's atrocities.

We in the USA, as well as they, are trapped by warmongers who react to troubled times and bear the blame and shame as the cost of oil climbs. We suffer from the rise with empty pockets, empty lives.

Worst of all, the world will pay most for the mistakes and evil intent that sent GIs to die, to kill or be killed, so the Bushes could build their dynasty on the bloody base of our disgraced democracy.

Sunday, April 08, 2007


I am not from New York. I was born, bread and bageled in the Midwest. But 0nce I was introduced and seduced by The City---nothing could be so ugly or so pretty---I loved and hated it the worst and best.

I loved it not and hated it a lot when first we met and, yet, as I recall in retrospect, what else could I expect?

Mixed emotions of crowds in constant motion, loud mouthed natives roam its street; graced by winter snows, slush and sleet and oppressive summer heat; homeless bums slumber, defecate and urinate in Central Park and every place without a trace of wine-soaked shame.

Tourists stare and shake their heads for the walking, talking dead, fed by gutters, dumpsters, waste that clutters every place rats infest and feast on food unfit for man or beast.

New York, a not so ugly, not so pretty, gritty city, buildings high, glass-walled castles in the sky, where thousands live, grow old and die and passers by buy and sell and nobody gives hoot in hell who they were, where they come from, where they go, where they disappear to six feet below.

Frankly I don't mind that I will leave behind a population of the mostly poor, living in isolation from the rich and famous, the dreamers and schemers who provide the inspiration, stimulation, innovation, creation and frustration it was meant to be: the cultural center of not just this nation but the whole of God's creation.

There will always be the wimps, pimps, hawkers, stalkers, Wall Street looters, men in thousand dollar suits, fast talkers, street walkers, high-priced prostitutes, crooked pros who know the way to gyp the suckers of their pay, pious among us who kneel and pray that all that's illegal and evil will go away so they can convince non-believers to look ahead to Judgment Day.

But those who have a mind to change this strange and powerful melange into a mindless paradise will find that it can't happen here. The whole world could disappear, but come next New Year the ball will fall on Times Square, and the Empire City ain't gonna go nowhere. It's here to stay. Okay? Okay!


The oceans of the world were once a peaceful place to sail.
Seamen scaled the waves and seas in search of killer whale.
They braved storms and jagged reefs with resolute and skill,
Faced dangers of the deep with most determined will.
Typhoons were a challenge that all men of salt could meet.
They taunted daily treachery and laughed at sure defeat.
Today the pitfalls that they know and oft can overcome
Are dwarfed by something new that leaves the senses numb.
A menace lurks in waters dark, in mysterious monsoons.
Fathoms they confront today are sky-borne high tech moons.
Sailors once looked to the stars for guidance in the night.
Now from the heavens they must fear a falling satellite.


Come with me to The Slum, the land of the crumb, cheap rum, the stink of booze in worn out shoes, ragged, rumpled clothes, a face where pain and misery shows, oozing scabs, new and old scars from wars in last chance bars, hacking coughs where bloody spittle runs off down-turned lips, dreams of ships that sail but don't come in, deals that fail before they begin.

Beggars. stalkers, endless talkers to voices only they can hear. The unwashed on the brink of death, strangled by their failing breath, rotting gums where teeth once grew. Muscle turned to flab and men who haven't worked since God knows when.

The slum bums. Who are they? Where did they come from? Here and there. Everywhere. The big success in the swivel chair. The gambler never dealt an ace. The priest who fell out of grace. The young and old controlled by cheap wine and booze, losers until they die alone on a lonely street and rats dine on the fresh dead meat.

The good, the bad,. the never had, the mad whose brain has gone astray and so have they, fading more day by day, no future to look forward to, only fleeting memory, a vacation by the sea, a love to kiss, a friend to miss, bliss when the sky was blue and a golden hue crowned the end of day.

This was as million yesterdays ago. They now vaguely recall all before alcohol took it all away. When they could smell a fresh grown rose, wiggle their toes in the sand as the sun began to warm the day. when all their cares could melt away as they watched their children play, when a pizza pie or a ham on rye, a friendly hello and a cheerful goodbye were worth more than a million bucks could buy.

The Slum. The Land of Booze. If that you choose, you lose.

Saturday, April 07, 2007


We don't know what goes on behind closed doors. We don't know who's faking facts and who's keeping scores. We don't know who lives, who dies. who's wrong or right, who's worldly wise. We don't know who will lift this deadly shroud, if the final gasp will be a mushroom cloud.

We do know millions don't care. They're headed for Allah knows where and He won't tell. Probably to hell or someplace worse where killers go who slay just to blast the innocent away. It's a rotten way to fight a war. They've forgotten what life is for.

Some future day when all the killing's done and a gun is just an icon in a grim museum will tourists look with wonder and awe how the young who had so much to give chose not to live, instead to die and take with them passers by caught up in a war waged to satisfy the rage of men gone mad. How sad can history be?


What's going to happen when the thousands of Johnnies come limping home? They're the lucky ones who faced the guns of the enemy and now face a future of misery, haunted by the memory of the dead who bled and died instead of living to regret a fight that's not quite over yet.

Lucky that they're still alive? That they survived a war contrived by AWOL cowards who lied, trashed the nation's pride, wage a misguided war where thousands died and now they still decide what we should do to get out of the mess they got us into. Does that make any sense to you?

Some of our GIs will march, some will strain to stand erect with crutch or cane to salute a flag that let them down, they and the thousands underground who found out one fatal second late they had to break their date with destiny. Some lost their sight, some lost their minds, some left limbs and hope behind, Some chose the right to fight and die to save a democracy turned into a hotbed of hypocrisy.


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 relaxrelxrelax 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 lax of Xlax compounds the situation a surefire solution to this violation of your constitution, known to make the problem pass, is a glass of juice of prunes. That soon will set you free of this malignancy. If that fails to rid what ails you, bran 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 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. 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 enoug to eat a bear.

Friday, April 06, 2007


What does it mean when thousands die needlessly of senseless violence for a cause to protest unjust laws or change from what was to what might be because a few disagree with the majority? Such deaths are pure insanity, a loss of treasured humanity, all to satisfy the vanity of twisted minds gone blind to value and reality.

When terrorists commit suicide and take unsuspecting victims along for the to the other side, how widespread is the effect of those dead on a world left behind?

Lost dreams of young in search of better ways. Couples looking ahead to contentment in retirement. Those with health and wealth who slaved and saved, finally secure financially, dead with no one to leave their money to.

Inquisitive minds whose imagination and dedication could have benefited billions in a trillion ways. Plays and poems and tomes unwritten, symphonies and melodies, works of art, started, left undone, just because one man with a gun, casually kills a mother's son.

Not all wasted lives are caused by man. God often plays a leading role in killing sprees. Hurricanes and rains and angry seas, disease and unsolved medical mysteries, quirks of nature. Who's to blame? No matter how or why people die, death's the same.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007


It's astounding what could be found if intelligence. talent and tenacity cooperated to save the planet, warming near the danger zone, that nature cannot cure alone.

Nature's forces fueled the growth of civilization from invention of the wheel to development of science that sent man to the moon and soon will send him to Mars and other far away stars.

Science has the evidence, but is faced with defiance of political hacks who turn their backs on proven facts and react thus: "It's all unproven theory. To do what they say will force us to change the way we work and play. Anyway, who's going to pay for all this tech tomfoolery?"

Are they right? With wars waging and nations staging attacks to neighbor's wells, with endless need for guns and planes to kill the enemy---incidentallly war's a proven theory---we can't afford to spend hordes on scientific proliferation.

After all this progress how could we have retrogressed to a stage where this world could become again a nothingness of galactic dust floating free in outer space without a face to call its own?

We see hope among the foreign family of nations who are willing to support modest allocations to stave off destruction if it comes. But these are meager amounts. Success depends on major nations reinvesting their war chests to what scientists believe could turn the tide worldwide from annihilation to salvation and revitalization.

But will all be lost because of the lust and stupidity of men too blind to see we may face a pulverized return to outer space from whence we came? Life might never be the same or might not ever recur.

Monday, April 02, 2007


Lions growl, coyotes howl, even lowly snakes can hiss, dogs bark, larks sing, when monkeys have a fling and do their thing, it's said, when they're through they sigh with bliss. Dogs bark, and aardvarks vark when they eat beans. Apes cry out with arthritic pain when they get old and can't climb trees.

Wise old owls ask "Who?" but if they knew they might ask "What?" and if they lie they won't tell why. Cats. of course. meow that sometimes sounds like "Wow!" or "How?" or try to moo like a cow. Don't know what reindeers say but they understand Santa's command and that's OK. Rats just squeal and sea lions sound like goats with sore throats.

Parrots have a voice, but have no choice in what they say. Their "Have a nice day" is quite OK, but they don't know beans about what it means. If they knew they'd say "Too-da-loo" or "Screw you!" and add some four-letter words they heard and learned from you.

Sheep say "Bah!" and birds fly cheep and geese "Honk! Honk!" at airplanes flying by, acting like they own the sky. Chickens cluck and ducks quack-quack, but what they say they won't take back.

Mocking birds mock and birds in the cuckoo clock are not cookoo and they can tell the time of day. Big Ben goes "Bong! Bong! Bong!" loud enough to scare King Kong. Birds of prey pray all day for the rain go away so they can go out and play. Seagulls see gulls and guys making love in the skies and Eagles see gulls and they get high. Pelicans can and do what mommies tell them to.

Bats sleep hanging upside down and when they smile it's a frown. Nobody knows what they mean when they crow but crows eat crow when they're Republican politicos. Stripper crows take off their clothes when they do shows where anything goes,

TO BE CONTINUED: There'll be lines about dogs that blog and cats that don't know where they're at, birds that use four-letter words and fish who wish they weren't delish and end up on a gourmet dish. Want to add to the list? Blog me back before you have a Mac attack. I insist.