After the Harley Dog and I got back from the planet Xanthous a few days ago, where I attended a conference of galactic spiritual and religious folks (and believe me, those two things are mutually exclusive in many cases, at least here on Earth), I decided we needed a few days of taking it easy on the SS Dee Dee, the Popesedential yacht. Yeah, I know, we did a lot of relaxing when we were on Xanthous, but that was business-related relaxing; its not the same as sailing on the Dee Dee, hanging out, enjoying the sea and doing gross guy things.
For those of you who aren't familiar with me, I'm Pope John The Tall of the All John All The Time World Church, and my buddy and official canine of the Church is the Harley Dog; he's also the backup navigator when we take my atomic powered space ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, or RU Kidding for short, out on voyages to places "where no man (or woman for that matter) have gone before". Like the planet Xanthous. We're off to the Caecilian Halcyon in the Rings of Anopheles next week, to visit the planet Hyperion, this time to check out some property the Church wants to purchase and build a cathedral upon, you know, something along the lines of the Crystal Palace down there in Orange County CA, only much less ostentatious, which shouldn't be difficult. (The Taj Mahal is less ostentatious than the Crystal Palace.)
Now the SS Dee Dee, as I said, is the official yacht of the Pope Guy, and she's a beauty: a 245 foot, twin-engined craft capable of 5982 knots (that's 38 mph to you non-nautical types, or piR squared plus postage and handling), sleeps 115 guests, (or about 75 NFL defensive lineman), has a swimming pool, beauty salon, casino, massage parlor, pizza parlor, several tennis courts, the Sears Tower (I will NOT call that building "the Willis Tower"; screw the jerks that bought it, they should never have changed the name), two pubs and its own zip-code. Yeah, the Dee Dee is totally cool.
We drove down to the dock where we keep the Dee Dee moored (SSDD, get it, come on you guys, turn the page with me), boarded and went about getting her ready to embark. (By the way, "embark" backwards is "krabme", just so you know. There's a street right down the road from my headquarters here in the sun-drenched, bucolic San Fernando Valley named Moorpark, which is "kraproom" backwards. Now don't you feel better knowing these things?)
We got underway and set sail for our place in the Sargasso Sea, on Snacilbuper Island (pronounced SNACK-ILL-BUPER; you can figure out what that one is backwards by yourselves); the autopilot had us on the right course, and the engines were humming as we cruised along at a nice, leisurely pace. I went below for an adult beverage (nothing for Harley; as far as I know, Harley doesn't drink, at least not in front of me) and we settled in for the afternoon. The sun was bright in the sky, a round ball of heat and light, and its light was a little blinding as it reflected off the water. There was an easy breeze from out of the south, warm and inviting, like a caress on your skin almost, and it made whitecaps on the waves as they broke. There was that fine, marine-salty aroma of the ocean wafting through the air, and as I sat with my feet propped up on the railing, sunning myself and enjoying the day, all was right with the world. It was warm, and exotic and warm, and pleasant, and warm, and we're drifting, and I'm drifting, lazily along with the current...
...riiing...riing...riing...RIING...okay, okay, I'm coming...geez, what time is it?...What...Mike, its 4:00am, this had better be good...they did, when?...you sure?...yeah, that's amazing news...yeah, okay, I'm glad you woke me up...yeah...hey, listen, while I'm thinking of it, are we still on for gerbil golf later?...cool...yeah, call me later...thanks.
My consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (not THAT Michael Jordan, he was the one in that movie "Space Jam" a few years go) just called to tell me the great news, and your Pope couldn't be more pleased. Boy, what a banner day for the planet this is; according to RRMMJ, Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton Hotel California announced at a post-Grammy Awards party last week THAT THEY HAD ENDED THEIR FEUD AND WERE NOW "BFFs" AGAIN. (You were aware that they were feuding, right?) I am ecstatic, and I'm sure the stock market will rise later today on the strength of this report; optimism will again reign supreme.
Kardashian and Hilton, or as they're otherwise known, the Wit Sisters, Half and Dim.
Of course, this was the second bit of earthshaking news to emanate from "Hollywood" recently; earlier this week, in a surprise development, Charlie Sheen, the star of the hit TV series, "Two And A Half Men", (I always wanted to ask which one was the "half") offered to give advise to Lindsay Lohan on how to handle staying sober, in an effort to assist her in her struggles to regain whatever little common sense, if any, she previously possessed. Unfortunately for Charlie, however, there is a statute in the California Penal Code (CPC 5268 sec(5d) (para L) that states as follows: "In the event that one totally incompetent "Hollywood Celebrity", said "Celebrityness" to be determined by the amount of times said "Hollywood Celebrity" is mentioned in the various tabloids and entertainment media for any drunken and/or drug-induced stupid act, such amount to be no less than five (5) times in any six-month period, offers advise on maintaining sobriety to another "Hollywood Celebrity" of equal or greater doofusness, such attempt at giving advise shall be termed "the blind leading the blind", and said "Hollywood Celebrity" offering such advise shall and will be immediately taken out and shot by the Sheriff's Department of the county in which the "blind leading the blind" offense occurs, to ensure that the spread of gross stupidity be halted as quickly as possible." Hey, Charlie, there are probably 150 families who are dependent on their incomes from being employed on your show who are now not working because you can't stay clean and insist on spending a great deal of your time stoned off your ass in hotel rooms, having drunken, drug-fueled orgies with hookers, or in rehab, which apparently isn't having much effect. How about if you let LiLo screw up on her own and you figure out how to get back to work so all the "little people" on "TAAHM" can get back to earning a living. You douche-bag.
I do so love living in LA (pronounced LAH); its one of the few places in the universe where the possession of an IQ that's roughly equivalent to a good golf score makes you an Einstein. With Hollywood having a lineup like this (Sheen, Lohan, Kardashian and Hilton) there's no way that Washington will ever be able to corner the market on doofusness.
And I hate it when someone wakes me up out of a dead sleep, especially when I'm dreaming; the older I get, the longer it seems to take me to get reaclimated to reality, not that there's a lot of reality going on out here in LA, all the dopey shows to the contrary.
I think Harley and I need a few days of taking it easy on the SS Dee Dee, the Popesedential yacht, which, by the way, was named for my ex-girlfriend, Dee Dee Spanxalot. You know, hanging out, enjoying the sea and doing gross guy things. Wait, that's where this whole nightmare began, up at the top of the page, isn't it?
Never mind.
Love and anchors,
PJTT
copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.
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