Monday, June 29, 2009


A monkey at the zoo named Lou knew something no other animal knew except for Jake the Ape who it happened to. It was a secret kept by Jake. He didn’t want to make a big to-do at the zoo where he lived quite comfortably.

Lou disagreed. He felt the world should know so he escaped one day and went to school and learned how to go on line and posted the news that Jake the Ape had learned to talk, read and write like people do.

When the media learned about this educated ape they demanded the zoo grant an interview with Jake so the world would know if it was true. Officials at the zoo met with Jake who said: “Yes, it’s true. But for goodness sake, why get so excited?”

The zoo boss was at a loss what to say, then was enthused by the news. ”Not be excited?” he declared. “We’re delighted With all the publicity we expect it will increase our admissions and donations beyond our wildest expectations.“

Jake nodded his head. “What’s more, we apes will demand full citizenship for all the animals at the zoo who can pass a test or two. Eventually. we will elect a baboon president with a mate who can count to eight who will have a love affair with the secretary of state.”

“Very funny, Mister Jake,” the zoo boss replied. ”Watch your tongue, you talky ape. Just know your place and do your schtick or we’ll ship you back to Africa real quick.”

Which was just where Jake wanted to go. So he decided what he’d do to these human mammals who try to trammel on animal rights.

When the day came for Jake to meet the press he looked the same as any ape. When questions flew, Jake faked stupidity, pulled his ear and scratched his rear and crotch, snatched a watch, swallowed it down, took a slurp of water and burped. He roared, lay down, fell asleep and snored. The media got bored and left without a word.

Know what? Jake went back to eating nuts, chicken wings and diamond rings, learned how to sing, play a banjo and do the tango, wrote poetry and hid behind a stupid face and knew his place.

Jake escaped from the zoo and flew on a plane back to Africa where he wed a lady ape and raised a simian family.

FOOT NOTE: Before Jake died at 63, he wrote a book about his youth, told the truth that he could talk but kept his silence to the end. Why? Read his best selling book, “The Escape of Jake, the Talking Ape.” In fact, it’s now out in paperback.


An undeclared declaration of war exists between humans and various animal species who dump clumps of facies here and there and everywhere for all to see and smell.

We’re mad as hell because their brownery spoils millions of miles of greenery and multi-colored scenery as we slave to save our planet from pollution their behind leaves behind.

I know when they gotta go they gotta go and so do we. We’ve got various outlets for what we let out, but they haven’t even got a chamber pot to catch their droppings.

I don’t blame our four-legged friends for what they do to dispose of their doo-doo. They don’t have a faciliy or the ability to delay excretion of the excrement. As far as I know, most animals are colorblind so don’t mind the brown littering our town.

What I suggest would be the best way to solve the situation and preserve our greening nation would be a network of comfort stations for the animal population.It would include trees for dogs individual boxes of sand for cats, traps for rats and urination stations for animals who choose to use them.

Getting animals to patronize and use them will take a bit of training, but they will be greatly appreciated when it’s snowing or it’s raining, Once they know there are features just for creatures---all you can gnaw steak bone bars for dogs, milk for cats, assorted foods for other broods. They’ll be patronized and prized by pets from coast to coast.

There will be grounds for pets to run, have fun, meet mates and congregate. Owners will have a lot of pet talk to brag about and some will make a late night date at the nearby singles mingles bar.

Saturday, June 27, 2009


When a doggie’s not eating or scratching its chasing its tail but never catching. Round and round It goes and never knows the elusive tail is beyond its pale.

A dog will race and chase its extremity and never face canine reality. Of course a dog can’t catch its end, but dogs aren’t aware of this, my friend.

It’s the never knowing that keeps dogs going in yapping, snapping spirits high. They try and always fail to catch their tail, but they keep hopes and dreams alive. Thus canines strive to snare their end from sunshine’s rise to sunshine’s blend.

“Someday, someway,” a dog will pant, “that tail shan’t get away from me. I am confident of victory.” Of course a dog can’t catch its rear, but dogs don’t know of this, my dear,

Dogs have talents all men prize. In their way, they’re awesome wise. They have compassion in a fashion superior to humankind. But the canine mind can’t comprehend this fact about their other end. As they chase in circled race the rear keeps pace with the other place.

Until dogs learn this fact of science they’ll fight the world with doggie defiance. But if they knew what humans do
they’d slow down, chew a bone and leave their doggone tail alone.


Horses and men are much alike. They both like acclaim and gain fame through competition and a immense ambition to outpace the competition in whatever race they’re in.

Both are driven by intuition and ambition to achieve success. They’ll never settle for second best. They’re determined to retain the fame of the sport they’re in. And once they win they must win again and again to stay on top, ahead of the crop of also-rans who race to take the winner’s place if he should fall behind.

Man and horse, of course, share the glory at the end of the oval ring. Fame comes and goes like springtime snows. A nose behind the winners rear once too often and you are out of here. It took the force of man and horse as a team to win and they don’t choose to lose.
Partners in the victory of the triple crown at Churchill Downs can’t let the betters down and end up place or show, a sniff behind the winner’s behind.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009


Once twice or thrice upon a time In the town of Twinkle on the shore of Lake Forsaken there lived a man named Rip Van Winkle who changed his last name from Winkle to Tinkle to live up to his shameful fame his urination reputation as the baddest bladder splatter in creation.

Crowds would go to watch his tinkle turn into a flow and hear him say, “When you gotta go you gotta go.” At the end of each flow show viewers shelled out dough, a penny a piece to watch him pee.

As years flowed by and Rip (now everybody called him “Drip”) was going dry, he studied his wrinkles in the bathroom mirror with a sense of doom and gloom. His teen wife, knew each failed tinkle put another wrinkle in her lover’s face, sometimes also in another place.

“Don’t give up the ship, Rip,” said she as they lay in their bridal bed. “I know your flow’s slow, but your drip still goes to where knows it has to go.”

Rip flashed his old style smile. *Tell you what I’m gonna do...” he began, then fell asleep. His flow began, went on and on until every drop was gone. And so was he, the legendary urinary king of pee.

Sure, Rip wet his bed. But as he always said, “When you gotta go you gotta go.”


When it comes to Hollywood’s bottom line, forget integrity, quality or morality, whether the flick’s sick, good, bad, sad or funny. The bottom line : Show Me The Money!

Producers, excusers and losers jack up the juice, play it loose, abuse the viewer’s intelligence and sense of right and wrong. They assume the critics will go along with press releases and at least quote bits and pieces of phony praise to fool the fans and ignore the pans and honest reviews that come right out and say, “I think this movie stinks!".
When the movie moguls realize, to their surprise, they’ve invested millions in shiece of pit they’ll say and do most anything to bring in the ding-a-lings and convince them this flop is a first class hit.

It won’t be the first or last time Hollywood has gypped the nation, warning censorship and freedom of expression will be the next effects of the current recession/depression.

Hollywood flips and flops, pulls out all the stops to cop top reviews, to dominate the social news to please the indiscreet movie buffs. Enough’s enough!

Theaters are already replete with subjects too offensive to mention. To call attention by name the infamous films filling the tarnished silver screen would be obscene. The saps who fell into the trap and are addicted by such crap?

The situation sucks. Without Schmuck Bucks Hollywood would be outa luck.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009


It all started with a blazing bright light in the darkness of night. It was not lightening that starts with a roar or a rumble or intermittent mumble, a sudden streak that speaks its piece, grows weak, comes and goes to who knows where.

It starts on Mars or Venus or other nearby stars, then competing planets get in line and wait for action to begin. Is this first blow worse than anything we’ll ever know, a declaration of inter-planetary confrontation of all of God’s creation, the universe? What could be worse?

This is not a fear of annihilation limited to residents o fthe stratosphere. What starts up there will spread down here and it’s not clear which side might win and which might lose and which we eventually must choose to support, who to accuse, what kind of treaty must be found on neutral ground that opposing planets can embrace to save interspace for future generations to generate and embrace the greatest profits to be made with limited loss of expendable life.

Mediation on the Moon broke down soon after it began concerning flight rights over nudist sites after dark when lovers in parking spots smoking pot get hot watching little green men drink gasoline and shoot flames without shame at any dame they aim to tame.

Earthguys demand discounts on the price of gas they use to heat up their lass like green men do. And they say, why not reveal our space machines are fueled by a mix of prune juice and Boston beans, better by far than gasoline?

On a cold winter day to get rockets rocking, filter through dirty socks water from a kiddy pool, diaper drippings and toenail clippings, mixed by worn out windshield wipers. If that doesn’t work, a Viagra pill will fill the bill and the ship will be off and running hard on the road to Mandalay.

The delegations refused to fool around with far out foolish fuels made from beans and prunes, diaper drippings and toe nail clippings and other things, but agreed on research into dirty jeans as a means of fueling future flying machines.

When views collided, the two sides decided to divide. Besides, each considered a curse faced the universe and for diverse reasons, things would be worse unless war was declared. Both sides prepared for the First, Last and Only War of the Universe against the Universe.

The War lasted a thousand years and when peace was declared Earth and all the stars were spared but not the creatures or movie double features or Sunday School teachers or TV preachers. All that remained were empty jails and courts and unwashed jockey shorts. All the universe still was there and so was the air, but nobody to care or steak or ham to give a damn. Odd but true, there still was God and cod and a wad of cash and corned beef cash, And flowers and trees and stinging bees and God still in charge of His dynasty.

Friday, June 19, 2009


Old Mother Hubbard awoke one night as hungry as a bear. She looked in the cupboard and what did she see? The shelves were barely bare. There were some cracker crumbs, a wad of well chewed bubblegum, a bottle of Tums, a red jellybean turning green and two Viagra pills for Jack and Jill to make a scene, ya know what I mean.

Mother H. ached for solid Jewish food and was in the mood for grandma's chicken soup mitt matzoh balls and gefilte fish and blintzes for a midnight nosh but, by gosh, it was all eaten up by a rabbi with a rabid appetite.

Discouraged, she ate a bit of this and a bit of that with a schmear of peanut butter and chicken fat. But when she got back in bed she was bitten by a kosher cat on the place where she sat. And M. H. was starving so she bit the cat back. and both satisfied their appetites and enjoyed their midnight snacks.

Monday, June 15, 2009


Big fat Nat the cat was an avid baseball fan who had a dream to play on a Big League team, chasing fly balls in center field and winning a prize as the red hot new King of Swat. While asleep he always came to the plate with bases full. He'd take two strikes then swing. The ball took wing, zinged over the wall, never to be seen again.

It was top of the ninth, two outs, bases full, three runs behind. But fans had no fear. Fat Bat was there. "Hit a homer!" they all cried. Nat compiled. That was that. Of course, this was all just a dream. Nat had never played in a baseball game.

But all the same...One day a Big League scout saw Fat Nat the cat asleep in a park, "No doubt this cat's got to make out" he said. He signed the cat up on the spot, put him in the line-up. Right away Nat earned his pay by playing baseball in a way it had never been played before. When a high fly ball flew by, homer-bound, Nat the cat, in feline style, jumped three feet off the ground and caught the ball in his mouth. When it was Fat Nat's turn at bat he doffed his hat, picked up his tail instead of a bat and hit the ball over the center field wall. Nat never tried to slide. He jumped high and landed on home base with all his weight and smashed the catcher's dental plate.

The fans all cheered and the Baseball Commissioner ruled that civil rights regulations banned all discrimination, including the animals in the zoo and George Bush, too

Thursday, June 11, 2009


I am beyond the age of eighty, plagued by more than one disease, I sometimes cannot catch my breath and think this is the onset of something worse than death. But in spite of my fear I'm still here and I ain't going nowhere as long as Medicare and a secondary share the expense of my medical events.

I moan and groan in my bed alone and wait for the call on the telephone from whoever up there or down below is calling to tell me it's time to go. But until when then is now I wait for the night when things are right. I turn off the light, turn on the charm and the chick of seventy-six will be alarmed and so will I, a man of eighty plus who will travel an hour or more by Grayhound bus to a widow's door for a ten minuet blast from my distant past. When I turned eighty I thought my need for a lady would fade. But fhen I met Gwen, a bit younger than me. We even tried the day she died. I miss her and I kiss her in my dreams and it seems she's somewhere waiting for me.

My lover made me realize old agers at any stage can do more than fantasize and romanticize, Behind each worn and wrinkled face, each tender and tenacious embrace, there's a need to hold on to what will soon be gone.

We are never too old to make love or take love wherever it is extended. Befriend a friend unto the end of life on earth, Labor in the art of love for all it's worth. This is what I learned from my love who never turned me down.

Take a chance with another romance if it ever comes around, said she, closed her eyes and set me free to love again. When, how well? Only time will tell. But for now I'll just dwell a while on what love and life meant to her and means to me.

Lovers should love until the day they die, And I will tell you why. Because there's no guarantee he or she will be waiting patiently up there or down below for you to do what you did when you were only twenty-three.

Sunday, June 07, 2009


Old Mother Hubbard awoke one night as hungry as a bear. She looked in the cupboard and what did she see? The shelves were barely bare. There were some cracker crumbs, a wad of well chewed bubble gum, a bottle of Tums, a red jellybean turning green and two Viagra pills for Jack and Jill.

Mother H. ached for solid Jewish food and was in the mood for grandma's chicken soup mitt motsah balls and gefilte fish and blintzes for a midnight nosh but, by gosh, it was all eaten up by a rabbi with a rabid appetite.

Discouraged, she ate a bit of this and a bit of that with a schmear of peanut butter and chicken fat. But when she got back in bed she was bitten by a kosher cat on the place where she sat. And M. H. was starving so she bit the cat back. and both satisfied their appetites and enjoyed their midnight nosh.

Thursday, June 04, 2009


Consider the mystey and history of Buzzy Bee who survived a wing slap attack from Fifi the Flea, was saved while asleep on a burning spare tiire, escaped from a spray by exterminater Barney Schwartzbeggar. Then Buzzy fell in a sewer, got stuck on a skewer and had a fast repast with a thief and the chief of police.

At last report, Buzzy was hot to consort with Fifi who once knocked him out enroute to make out with the wing flapper who disabled his sting thing temporarily.

When Fifi found out Buzzy was only bruied and was up and about she wanted another chance to knock Buzzy out. Opportunity came when a promoter signed the bee and the flea for a do-or-die fight, one fall take all the following Fall at Mawlers Mall just down the hall from a pile ol cured manure.

The night of the fight the crowd was light because who shave a git if a Killer Bee stung Fifi Flea or versa vice. A double killing would be kinda nice. As it all turned out they were both knocked out when Buzzy tripped and fell at starting bell and plopped on top of Fifi the flra. The fight ceased, the flea was deceased and the crowd of three criied "We wuz fleeced!"

The nurse and the guy who drove the hearse stole their share of the purse. Fifi was crushed to mush but otherwise was none the worse for wear. Buzzy, an ounce overweight, was disqualified and given the gate but not his share of The Gate which came to a dollar eight after a ten cent expense to clean the matt of the splat stain of Fifi's remains.

**********EDITOR'S NOTE: The wing slapping flea changed her name from Floozie to Fifi? Why did she do it? Don't ask me. Ask Fifi.

Wednesday, June 03, 2009


Why'd the GOP lose big time? Choose your favorite crime and I'll choose mine. Add nine or ten then add again. The Republicans committed them all and that's what led to the fall of the Bush die-nasty.

Let's start with the war we couldn't win. Bush got us in with lies that led to the death of thousands of GIs, hundreds of allies and innocent Iraqis, too many to count, but a great amount, that we know.

As we spent trillions on tools of war our deficit grew and the life we knew flew the coop and soon our economy was in the soup. The Bush regime seemed to think we needed to sacrifice our democratic laws because they aided the enemy. So they trashed the Constitution as a solution.

Laws were violated by Bush and company to defend us from terrorists. Dick Cheney and cohorts authorized torture of the enemy which didn't work. First the jerk denied it, then admitted they tried it and Bush lied and tried to hide it.

Dubya, the arrogant, incompetent selected president, invented wild excuses to justify abuses. He insisted he could legally disobey laws he had signed simply because he was the Commander in Grief or Thief or Grief/Thief/Chief, whatever.

Prisoners were kept in jail without bail even though the government failed to charge them with any crime worth a dime,.

Subpoenas issued were ignored by those in command and word got out without a doubt that underlings could do the same. The Bush cronies were all a bunch of high paid phonies on the dole of an administration out of control, playing a game of coverup while doing what they pleased as long as they appeased the wishes of the man in power.

Voters, fed up by the feds, said a new administration was needed that heeded the word of law. They saw in Barack Obama, a man they could trust, who would be just and would not lie. And that is why he got their vote. President Obama is the new face in the right place moving at a fast pace to correct the mistakes of the Bush disgrace.