So there we were, me and the Harley Dog, (me being Pope John The Tall of the All John All The Time World Church, and Harley being the "official" canine of the Pope Guy), hanging out on the beach at Cancun, enjoying the incredible weather, white-sand beaches and a SHITLOAD of great looking women, in bikinis, thongs and some even topless. We've got cold ones in the cooler, a half-pack of cigarettes, its a 106 miles to Chicago, its night and we're wearing sunglasses...wait, that's a scene from "The Blues Brothers" movie, it doesn't belong in this story. Okay, let's try that again. We've got cold ones in the cooler, the sun is shining, Harley has on his Speedo, there's mostly naked women ALL over the place and all is right with the world (at least for the moment; that will probably change quickly).
(Harley in a Speedo; like most men (and dogs) who wear those silly things, Harley doesn't have the physique for the swimsuit that Phoebe (Lisa Kudrow's character) from the TV show "Friends" once described as a "banana hammock". Most guys wearing Speedos look like ten pounds of sausage in a five-pound casing; you know, stuff bulging out everywhere.)
I have the good sense to have on a typical, middle-aged, sensible swimsuit, which means it covers most of my sins of excess but not all of them, and the ones that are still "on view" are just a little unsightly. When you're my age, modesty isn't an option, its a necessity; otherwise, you run the risk of outraging the other people on the beach or around the pool with a vulgar display of WAY too much wrinkly, puckered, out-of-shape skin. (Speaking of showing too much, how's this for an image you don't want in your mind: Kirstie Alley in a thong.)
Harley and I decided, after about 14 seconds consideration, that we should be allowed to have a few days off to spend lazing on the beach in "beautiful Cancun", soaking up the sun, some brews, some nightlife and looking at gorgeous semi-naked women until our eyes fell out. So I had the ground crew guys of the AJATTWC roll out my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, or RU Kidding for short, and told them to get her prepared to jump to Cancun the next day. (The Kidding is equipped with HyperAromaDrive, which allows her to reach speeds in excess of the Speed Of Aroma; since we're leaving from our launch pad here in the bucolic, cloudy and overcast San Fernando Valley, home of the porn industry and the headquarters of the AJATTWC, we should be able to reach the Gulf, using the HAD, in about 3.29 seconds, or about the length of time between stupid utterances by Rush Limbaugh.)
So we fired up the Kidding, loaded her up with beach stuff, a big cooler and several of those plastic shovel/rake/bucket sets and headed for Mexico.
...3.29 seconds later...
Well, here we are in Cancun, home of beautiful beaches, gorgeous babes in tiny or almost non-existent swimsuits, Senor Frogs nightclub, hotties in thongs, the Coco Bongo club, great-looking girls in bikinis, some really amazing snorkeling, a shitload of mostly naked women, (have you noticed the "mostly naked women" thing as a theme here?) and lots of touristy fun things to do, like wave-running and fishing and eating until you feel like you might burst and spread fat, happy tourist parts all over Eastern Mexico. And a lot of barely dressed female types. (Boy, if there's any truth to the study done by that German doctor that showed that men who stared at women's breasts lived longer, healthier lives, I'm a cinch to live to 269. Easy.)
FYI, I brought my cell phone but never turned it on; I figured that way, we might have three UNINTERRUPTED days of sunbathing, (who wants a dirty sun, right?), observing, downing brewskis, watching women, being lazy, checking out women, etc. And since we were in our room so seldom, I just ignored the messages on the phone on the nightstand. Hey, I'm the Pope, okay?
So what does my partner in crime do with his cell? Yep, he leaves it on, and we're down at the hotel's pool the second afternoon we were there, lying around looking drunk and sleazy, watching all the gorgeous babes, (you think I'm in a rut here or what?), when guess what? Harley's phone rings, and the Caller ID shows its my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one that endorses Nike shoes), and you know its not good news.
Harley answered and handed me the phone. (Actually, since he doesn't have opposing thumbs, he nudged it at me with his nose.)
"PJ...hey, Mike, how's things back in the workaday world?...no...no...no, we just got here yesterday...no...tell them I said no...I don't care, I'm tired of having my breaks and vacations interrupted...no...a TWO-YEAR subscription to S & M Fantasties?...(big sigh of capitulation here)...okay, where we going?...yeah, send me the info...okay...yeah, okay, see when we get back..." Shit.
The RRMMJ tells me that the Bored of Elders at the AJATTWC has identified another "trouble spot" where they feel the soothing balm of Johnism is needed, and that Harley and I have to leave immediately for Harrisburg PA, to deliver the message. So off we went, after a final few hours of "beaching", a new word I just invented.
According to WGAL.com, Harrisburg police recently "filed charges against a Pennsylvania judge who they said they found highly intoxicated, unclothed and wrapped in a bedsheet in a Cumberland County hotel." (Probably looking for the ice machine.)
Seems like the Harrisburg PD got a call late one evening from another judge who was staying at the Radisson Penn Harris hotel, attending a judicial conference of some sort (the report didn't specify what the conference was all about: new ways to conduct voir dire, maybe?), and had met Douglas Gummo (no, I didn't make that name up), a magisterial district judge from Huntingdon County, and the one who was the one accused of "harassment, disorderly conduct and public drunkenness." Earlier in the day, Judge Gummo had met the female judge who later called police, and after he had, apparently, hoisted a few cold ones with his brother jurists in the hotel lounge, decided to pay a visit to his newfound judicial buddy (the female judge), and according to the police report, was trying to gain entrance to her room when police arrived.
"She refused him admission to her room previously in the evening," the police news release stated. "Gummo then returned a short period later and beat on her door for approximately 10 minutes and attempted to turn the doorknob. He left and returned on two other occasions beating on the door, attempting to gain access."
The release goes on to state that when Gummo tried to get in the room the third time, the judge inside, who has not been identified, called police.
Now I don't know about you, but I find the idea of drunken, almost naked male jurists, skulking around the halls of a hotel, attempting to gain entrance to women's rooms a bit unsettling. Okay, a lot unsettling. Isn't it assumed that judges, of all people, would try to set a good example for the rest of us with their behavior? If we wanted our court officers to act like drunken college kids at a frat kegger, then we'd appoint drunken college kids to the bench.
If judges in Harrisburg PA can roam the halls of local hotels, acting drunk and disorderly, then the Bored was absolutely right: this is a place that desperately needs the message of Johnism.
We're going to start addressing that need just as soon as I find out the name of the female jurist that Judge Gummo was harassing; I understand she just recently returned from Cancun and has a great tan that she was showing off around the hotel pool earlier today, and Harley insists that we, I'm sorry, that he have a chance to check her out before we get to work. (What a perv.)
Hey, my staff back at Headquarters tells me that the American Bar Association is having their annual convention in Cabo San Lucas later this year; I wonder if Judge Gummo is planning to attend? Better yet, I wonder if his female "buddy" is going to be there? Even better than that, I wonder what kind of swimsuit she wears?
Love and sandcastles,
PJTT
copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.
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