Your Pope was going through some old papers the other day, and stumbled onto several "songs" that I had been working on, many years ago, back in the day when the muse was stronger in my life and I still believed I had undiscovered talent. (Nowadays, the muse is absent, or at least out sick, and I still believe I have undiscovered talent.) Reading through some of my unfinished masterpieces, I came to realize something: you're really pissed and stretching like crazy when you're writing a song about an ex-girlfriend and you're rhyming scheme is "piglet/cigarette"; I'm glad at some point I decided to pursue more enlightened endeavors.
Like being Pope of the All John All The Time World Church. That's right, music lovers, being the Pope Dude has been, so far, an enlightening experience, more so than, say, rolling tortillas, although I've never rolled a tortilla, so I really don't know that for certain. (I bet they don't roll near as well as gerbils on skateboards, or a cheese blintz.)
Yeah, so far, the whole thing has been a real learning experience; my staff has unearthed and forwarded to me stories and reports and articles on the damnedest subjects, like the four naked people that the cops found in the cab of a pick-up truck they had stopped for being "suspicious", (the truck, not the people; its hard to act suspicious when you're buck naked) or the roommates that got into a fight over Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies, or the bigamist in Grand Rapids MI who had a wife in RI AND a wife in MI, yeah, you could say we've found a few loose nuts out there that could use tightening down.
But that's not why I took the Pope gig; I took it so I could have the opportunity to preach the Gospel of Johnsim to the masses (that's you guys), an opportunity that I wouldn't have otherwise. Wait, I hear the Popephone ringing...
"PJTT...hey, Mike, 'sup?...no, I didn't hear about that...really...no shit...under the seat?...its almost a great idea, ya' know...hey, are we still on for Hooters tomorrow night?...great...yeah...okay, yeah, thanks."
That was the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one that owns the Charlotte Bobcats); he was telling me about an article he saw in yesterday's Times about a guy who got arrested down near San Diego in a wheelchair, posing as a disabled person. No, he didn't get arrested for impersonating a disabled person, with intent to commit mopery, he got arrested because the police found FIVE POUNDS of marijuana under the seat of his wheelchair that he was trying to smuggle into the United States at the border crossing at San Ysidro. Drug-smelling dogs tripped him up. (Just like in the movie "Up In Smoke"; remember the scene with the station-wagon full of nuns crossing the border back into the U.S. from Mexico?) (Why does the phrase "a station-wagon full of nuns" strike me as funny?)
"Hey, Pope Guy, is there a point coming up in the immediate future?"
Sorry, I got off-track.
I've noticed a number of things in my life recently that remind me that, like it or not, I'm single and live by myself, not including the Harley Dog. (For those of you who are new to my blog, Harley Dog is the "official" canine of the AJATTWC, and my roommate.) Its not like I had forgotten, or Dagon forbid that I want to be married again. (Dagon was the Amorite fertility god back in the time around 2000 B.C.; some of the more obscure sects of the AJATTWC still worship him today.) It's just that, occasionally, I suddenly remember that there are a number of differences between living by yourself and living with others. People, I mean, not orangutans.
Okay, an example: the other day I'm in the kitchen, getting myself a glass of soda. Items needed, a glass, ice cubes and soda. I already had a glass out, so I opened the freezer, took out the ice-cube tray (hey, this "pope" gig doesn't pay enough to be able to afford a 'fridge with an automatic ice thingie), and dropped a few cubes in my glass, only to realize that now, I had one ice-cube too many, meaning that either a) I could put the extra ice-cube in my glass, but then there would be too many, and that would mean less soda, or b) I would have to put the tray back in the freezer with just one cube in it or f) I could deep-six the extra cube and fill the tray with water, which would be the right way.
Now if you're living in a household with multiple folks, the answer to this dilemma is simple: put the tray back with the one, lonely ice-cube in it and let the next guy handle it. (This is called the "Pull Up The Ladder" theory of communal living; you use the ladder then pull it up behind you so the next guy can't.)
But the whole "living alone" thing comes crashing down on you in the above scenario; to wit, if you're the only person on the premises, there's no one else to fill the tray later. If you put that one, lonely little ice-cube, sitting forlornly in its cup in the ice-cube tray, back in the freezer, the next guy to reach for the tray will be...you again. Boy, there's a lose/lose rotation for you.
Shit.
Being an adult (Harley refuses to be, so I get the nod by default in this household), I tossed the lone ice-cube in the sink and filled the tray with water. (Large sigh of resignation here.) I hate being an adult; the responsibility is stifling.
The other thing I hate about living alone, and I know this is common, at least, I know two other people who admit to doing this besides me, but I talk to myself all the time. Out loud. (So far, it's been one-sided conversations only.) All the time.
And you know what the worst thing is? Sometimes, I get tired of the sound of my own voice. That's when you know you've been living alone too long.
So imagine my surprise when my staff found this article on the 'Net and forwarded it to me:
"Bizarre Iceland Museum Gets Donated Human Phallus".
(As you can obviously see, I have nothing but disdain for the common segue.)
According to a report by Raphael Satter for the Associated Press, Pall Arason, an elderly Icelandic resident, always strived for attention while he was living; in death, he got what he wanted: the 95-year-old Icelander's pickled penis will be the main attraction in one of his country's most bizarre museums.
"Sigurdur Hjartarson, who runs the Phallological Museum in the tiny Icelandic fishing town of Husavik, said Arason's organ will help round out the unusual institution's extensive collection of phalluses from whales, seals, bears and other mammals."
Interestingly, a number of other potential donors have pledged their "johnsons" to the museum, but Arason's is the first human penis to actually take up residence at the facility.
"'I have just been waiting for this guy for 15 years,' Hjartarson told The Associated Press in a brief telephone interview."
I'm sure Mr. Arason would be pleased with the attention and dedication he was shown by Mr. Hjartarson. (Obviously, these Icelandic folks never heard of the names Smith and Johnson.) (Another bad, although unintentional, pun.)
Well, won't you rest easier knowing that the Phallological (who comes up with these terms, anyway?) Museum now has a human exhibit to "round out" their display. (No mention was made in the article as to where in the hierarchy of size of various animal peni' the human member of Mr. Arason falls; I believe we're safe in assuming that, in the animal world, size doesn't matter, as long, pardon the pun again, as it works.)
"Highlights of the museum's collection include a 67-inch sperm whale penis preserved in formaldehyde, lampshades made from bull testicles and what the museum described as an 'unusually big' penis bone from a Canadian walrus."
And all I can think is I'm that really glad I'm not Mrs. Sperm Whale (speaking of bad puns, if there's a worse pun for this subject than "sperm whale", please someone tell me); SIXTY-SEVEN INCHES. Boy, (yeah, no doubt about this guy's gender), that's enough to make the stallions from Sunnybrook Farm drop their heads and turn back to the barn in shame. SIXTY-SEVEN INCHES long lying down is 5' 7" standing up, or slightly under the height of the average male human being. And I bet those bulls weren't too happy about the lampshade thing either.
I love living alone with HD; he thinks my silliness is great, but you can bet there's no woman in the world that would put up with gerbil golf off the balcony, dog farts and stories on the Internet about old guys that donate their schlongs to a museum.
Although Billy Ray Cyrus is married, so how hard can it be to find a woman with the IQ of a boysenberry plant who will tolerate a guy and his "eccentricities"? (Hey, at least I haven't willed my penis to a museum in Iceland. Yet.)
Okay, gotta' run; I need to fill some ice-cube trays and finish writing a song about my ex- that I started the other day; its called "You Broke My Heart So I Busted Your Jaw". Its all about unrequited love and why men are jerks because they never put the seat back down, although why anyone would sit down on a toilet without looking first is beyond me.
Probably something to do with living alone and talking to yourself.
Love and hermits,
PJTT
copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.
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