What's Dear Abby Got That I Haven't Got?

I assume that if you're an astronaut and you're afflicted with what people back many years ago used to call "the piles", the malady in those circumstances would be referred to "asteroids".

Yes?

As Pope and leader of the All John All The Time World Church (and even though that's two jobs, the Bored Of Elders of the AJATTWC refuses to listen to or acknowledge my argument to them, which makes the case for a double salary for me, based on having double responsibilities), I am frequently called upon by my faithful followers to provide advice, counsel, moral support and generally my opinion on many matters, both secular and spiritual. And up until recently, I have been able to avoid and ignore, ahh, excuse me, and so recently I decided to make, as a regular feature and part of my writings on the soothing balm of Johnism, an "advise column", to attempt to answer and in some way offer solace to some of those weary souls who have suffered the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" that life so often sends our way. (That was from Hamlet's "To be or not to be" soliloquy, Act Three, Scene One of the eponymous play; just trying to raise the "class" level a little, although I suspect it will take more than a quote from Shakespeare to raise the level of my writing.)

(And contrary to what some of you think, a two-pound canned Daisy is not a "hamlet".)

Anyway, with all that said, I turn my attentions to the cries of help from "my people", they that so desperately need what the soothing balm of Johnism can provide.

Did I tell you guys about the land I have for sale down in the Everglades?

No names, to protect the innocent and the chronically bewildered:

Dear Pope John the Tall: I am so distraught, Pope, and I don't know who else to turn to. The police have arrested me, my friends are all laughing at me, my family will have nothing to do with me, and it's all because of my love for my Geraldine. Ahh, my Gerry, what a beauty she is: tall, rangy-looking, with all that gorgeous blond hair and those huge brown eyes, she is my dream-girl, my princess, my love. Pope, how can I make my family and friends understand my feelings for Gerry and accept her as my "soul-mate"? Signed, The Kentucky Derby Is Not A Hat

Dear "Derby": YOU'RE THAT PERV FROM KENTUCKY WHO WAS ARRESTED FOR HAVING SEX WITH A HORSE...TWICE. OOOH, GOD WILL GET YOU FOR THAT, I'M SURE. EEEYOOWAH.

            You might try having a small, informal "tea" for your family and friends, and bring Gerry along as your guest; this will give all the people in your life a chance to meet...WHAT AM I SAYING, IT'S A HORSE, FOR CHRISSAKE.

            EEEYOOWAH.

            http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/07/20/nathan-johnson-horse-sex_n_904739.html#s312490&title=Dumb_Crime_Masterminds

I received this one from just recently:

Dear Pope Guy: What can I do to get the women in my life to stop leaving me? I mean, just because I'm a sleazy, overly-tattooed, cheating troglydyte, that shouldn't be any reason for all my "babes" to keep deserting me. First it was the wife; she gets all bent because, she says, I'm never home, I'm either "down at that filthy garage or out carousing with your buddies", and off she goes. Then it was the movie star: just because I had a few things going on the side, she flips out and hauls ass back to Texas. Now it's Tattoo Tina who thinks my "act" has gotten a little old and has pulled up stakes and split. What the hell is wrong with these broads, huh? Don't they know how cool I am? Signed, JJ In SoCal

Dear "JJ": Yeah, and the guy that shot your namesake was a fellow gang-member of his who was looking to collect a reward; you don't belong to a gang of bank-robbers by any chance, do you? No? Too bad, but I guess we can always hope you'll join one soon.

            Oh, and Sandy: glad you finally woke up; you go, gurl.

Or this one from "DR":

Dear Pope: I hope you can help me. Ever since I was 19, I have had trouble with my "boobs". Not an actual physical problem, I just can't make up my mind what size and shape I want them to be. Honestly, it's just so difficult knowing what's best for me. Should they be larger than "normal"? Should they be smaller, but perky? Should they be green, or maybe have polka-dots, or should I have a third one installed this time? I just can't decide, Pope, and I'm hoping you can offer me the wisdom you've gained from your many years of staring at women's breasts: what should I do? Signed, An "A" Is Only Better Than A "B" In School

Dear "A": Lemme' see: ongoing wars in Afghanistan and Libya; the debt ceiling debate; healthcare; poverty and famine in Africa; gun control; terrorism; our rapidly failing infrastructure; Iran; the recession and the housing market. Hey, "A", I can only assume that your current level of narcissism is a direct result of your previous marriage to Mr. Narcissism, CS. Do us all a favor: pick a set, have'em done and shut up.

            http://wonderwall.msn.com/movies/denise-richards-why-i-regret-my-boob-jobs-1632561.story?gt1=28135

Or this one from a tortured soul of my flock:

Dear Popester: Is there any way I can get the address of your favorite magazine, "DDD Beauties"? I'd like to subscribe. Thanks. Signed, An "A" Is Only Better Than A "B" In School, 1.1

Dear "A", 1.1: My consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one who was in "Space Jam") tells me that he will handle this inquiry.

Dear Pope John The Tall: This is an attempt to collect a debt, and any informat...whoa, that letter wasn't supposed to be in this batch. Sorry. Let's try another...

Dear Poop: No one thinks you're amusing and everybody hates you and you smell funny. Signed, Your Ex-

Dear Ex-: Well, two outta' three isn't bad.

And one more for the road:

Dear Popehead: Settle an argument, please? Would you recommend using a right-handed claw-hammer to remove the kanooten screen from the herblex array on my 1963 Rambler American, or should I use a 14/65's allen wrench with a detachable goober? Oh, love your blog, keep up the good work. Signed, There's Ten Bucks Riding On Your Answer

Dear "Ten": Generally I'd recommend using a laterally opposed granetel, with the side vents arranged in series.

Well, I suspect it's about time I got back to my other duties here at the AJATTWC, so I'll sign off for now. I sincerely hope that, in some small way, hearing the cries of the afflicted, and my attempts to provide them solace and a sense of their "not being alone", has helped and guided all of you, my faithful followers and devotees to the soothing balm of Johnism.

They run the Derby in the spring each year, don't they? Just asking.

Love and Dear Abby,

PJTT

Copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Questions (No Answers, Just Questions)

The headline at the top of the article read:

"Would you wear a bridal bikini?"

And I thought to myself, Pope, for you, the answer to that is a resounding...maybe. (That's Sports Illustrated bikini model Kate Upton above, for whom the answer is a resounding...you betcha'. I'd be her groom any time, unless I have to wear a matching jock strap and cutaway jacket.)

The biggest problem with my wearing a "bridal bikini", besides the obvious, is the lack of dignity involved in someone as old as I am wearing an outfit that is clearly meant for a younger, sexier and in much better shape person than your Popeamundo. (And "bridal bikini" may not be an oxymoron, but it sure seems like it's SOME kind of moron of some sort.)

Oh yeah, the "obvious" above; despite the fact that a number of positions at my other "job" outside of my Pope gig with the All John All The Time World Church are currently filled by transsexuals, I am not compelled to suddenly don woman's clothing and seek new adventures "on the wild side", as my first TGP (transgender person) friend once described it. No, the office of Pope has certain vestments and costumes that represent the solemnity and dignity of being the leader of a major religion like the AJATTWC, and those will suffice. Well, that and the fact that I just don't have the waist for a bikini any more.

I'M KIDDING, YOU DOOFUSES, I'M NOT WEARING ANY BIKINI, FOR CHRISSAKE, ARE YOU CRAZY? I'M, WELL, NEVER MIND THE NUMBER, BUT I'M OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW I'D LOOK LIKE A MAJOR FUCKTARD IN ANY KIND OF WOMAN'S CLOTHING.

Geez.

And why am I having this one-sided conversation with myself? (Did you think I was talking to you? Sorry.) Especially about this subject. "Would I wear a bridal bikini?" Whatta' ya', nuts?

Now maybe a "tankini", they cover so much more...WHAT AM I SAYING? AM I THE ONE THAT'S CRAZY HERE?

Ever since my interview and subsequent hiring of my new part-time employee, who is a very nice lady, a very attractive lady, a very talented and hard-working lady...who happens to have previously been a guy, things have been a little, I don't know, strange around the ol' headquarters of the AJATTWC.

So just when I thought things couldn't get any weirder, somebody on the 'Net asks me if I would wear a bridal bikini.

Only to semi-formal weddings.

The other question that I was asked recently online was whether or not I would be willing to give up the Internet for a one-time payment of a million dollars.

Would you give up using the Internet, forever, for $1,000,000? Cash.

Now I read the article by Suzanne Choney on Digital Life On Today, and the general consensus of the people interviewed for the piece was another resounding answer...NO. Although the poll was very unscientific, most of the responders gave one of two reasons for their negative answer: a) it wasn't enough money and b) "the Internet has become so key that no amount of money would cover the loss of its place in our lives."

I once worked with an Italian guy who had a very sardonic viewpoint towards much of the vagaries of life; when faced with a perplexing situation that made no sense to him, Joe would oftentimes opine that "maybe I'm the jackoff here."

Well, maybe I'm the jackoff here, but a million dollars? Tax-free? To never again make use, in any way, of one of the most amazing, yet confounding, inventions that man, with his fevered little brain, has conceived? No more emails, no more Facebook, no more YouTube, no sports commentary, no banking, no purchasing, no bill-paying, no blogs, no nothing, just like life back in the 1950s, when things were simpler, men were men and woman were glad they were.

Would you give up using the Internet, forever, for $1,000,000?

In a New York second, baby. I'd take the dough, dump it all in T-Bills and bonds, find myself a deserted island in the South Pacific, (I mentioned "South Pacific" in one of my posts earlier this week, and commented that it was also the name of one the great musicals of all time; can I mention it again? Shit, too late now.), build myself a small hut with hot and cold running island girls, and never set foot on "civilized" territory again. 

(I guess if there were hot and cold running island girls on the island that the island probably wouldn't qualify as "deserted", but I think you can get my drift here, yes?) (Coney Island, Catalina Island, Long Island, hey, just thought I'd throw a few more "islands" in there, like there weren't enough in that previous sentence. The Island Of Dr. Moreau, Alcatraz Island, traffic islands, Hawaiian Islands, okay, I quit.)

Not enough money? Hey, here at the AJATTWC, we could purchase truckloads of Girl Scout cookies for Harley and I with that kind of dough. Oh yeah, and do lots of charitable work besides. (Cookies first.) We could perform multiple acts of generosity and kindness with a million dollars. (The list price on a Pagani Huayra is $1.4 million, and I figure with my Pope discount, I'd be pretty close to having my big butt in the driver's seat of the most amazing automobile I've ever had the privilege to drool over. See my post from 6/20 for more about the car that is named after the Andean God Of Wind.)

Not enough money? For who, Donald Trump?

Geez.

But the real scary comment for me was the second one: "the Internet has become so key that no amount of money would cover the loss of its place in our lives." Now I use the 'Net heavily; besides my blog, there's all the things that I listed above (see above) that I would have to give up. Yes, the Internet is, like for so many people today, a major part of my life.

But the point is that I have a life, over and above what takes place online. Rather than get all maudlin here and give you the long list of the other segments of my life that exist outside my electronic personality on the World Wide Web, suffice to say that, yeah, I have lots of other interests that are not dependent on a computer (or a tablet, IPhone, BlackBerry, laptop or whatever) to be realized.

And of course, most importantly, I have my position and my work as the Popemeister of the AJATTWC. (My mother used to say that sarcasm was a tool of the ignorant.)

So chew on this for a moment, you children of the Internet Age: if your whole life is relegated to and controlled by an electronic connection to various types of computing machinery, you may want to rethink your values.

And while you guys are rethinking that, I'm going to reconsider my position on whether or not I would wear a bridal bikini.

Honestly, the real truth is that it would depend on the designer. Hey, no Kathy Ireland label K-Mart Blue-Light Special in the Woman's Swimwear Department knockoffs for this Pope Dude; if it ain't Prado, or C. Klein, no way.

Hey, a girl has to have her standards, and her values, right?

(????????????????)

Love and "itsy-bitsy, tweeny-weeny, yellow polka-dot bikinis", ("all the better to see you with, my dear"),

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

The Caveman Always Knocks Twice

There was a headline over an article I saw on the Internet the other day, which said the following:

"Neanderthals had sex with humans, says DNA".

According to the article, which I briefly scanned, a scientific study done by researchers at some snooty college someplace had determined, through the study of DNA from very early humans, that it's likely that these early humans had sex with Neanderthals, as the two strains of the human evolutionary chain passed each other coming and going, like ships in the night. The article contained all sorts of facts and graphs and such, all aimed at showing that, even in the early stages of their tribal development, humans (guys) were basically the same hopeless horndogs back then as they are today, tens of thousands of years later.

And I have a feeling that most of the woman in America would tell you that the headline is still applicable today as well.

Sadly, women have no appreciation for how difficult it is for guys to be proper "gentlemen", and the really sad thing is that, even if women walked around without makeup, without doing their hair, with shapeless clothing that revealed no hint of gender or voluptuousness, men would still be the disgusting, drooling reprobates that we've always been, going all the way back to Neanderthal days.

Slaves to your libido, man, thy name is hopeless.

According to a report in the newspaper The West Australian, the Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages for the region has effectively "banned" residents from using the name "Lucifer" for their newborn children, as well as other proposed names such as Messiah, 89 and King, by refusing to register any birth of a child with those names. (The report did note however, that in 2008, the agency allowed one couple to name their newborn twin baby boys "Bensen" and "Hedges", but Lucifer, sorry, folks, that's a no go.)

I just thought you guys would want to know that. (Hey, you New Zealanders, you guys rock. "Lucifer"? "Bensen & Hedges"? Cool.)

For you loyal and faithful followers of His Popeness, John The Tall of the All John All The Time World Church, you will recall that the Harley Dog and I were recently sent by the Bored Of Elders of the AJATTWC on one of our frequent "missionary" trips to the Pines Of Phillip, down near New Zealand, to interview both the director of their national health organization, Dr. Gary Indiana, to learn more about the ban that he has placed on the sale of geckos, the small, green lizard that has become the symbol of Geico Insurance, over the Internet to be used as a treatment for impotency, as well as the owner of a three-legged pig that was allegedly involved in a miracle. (The pig, not the owner. See my post from 7/19, for these stories, as well as a brief discussion as to why "Flaming Iguanas" would be a great name for a rock band.)

After we had completed all of our assigned duties, (including having dinner with Petras Moss, the Filipino farmer who owned the miraculous pig; Mrs. Petras served a delicious ham, with fresh vegetables and homemade biscuits, and there's still two to go, and unless you read the post from 7/19, that won't make any sense to you), we packed up our gear and boarded my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding (RU Kidding for short) for what should have been a quick return trip to the headquarters of the AJATTWC, located in the bucolic and mostly confused San Fernando Valley area of LA (pronounced LAH). Given that LA and the Pines Of Phillip are fairly close for a vessel equipped with HyperAromaDrive (it's only about six inches on my world map), it was supposed to be a quick trip, no more than an hour and a half or so, or about the same amount of time it took Justin Bieber to become a non-issue.

(Oh, and speaking of the music industry, using the term "music" in Justin Bieber's case very loosely, what a shame about Amy Winehouse. I thought her music interesting, but did not particularly like her as a person. Nevertheless, what a waste, and how sad for her family.)

Anyway, we were just passing over the Sargasso Sea (yeah, Pope, and you can't tell this is all made up or anything; the Sargasso Sea is in the North Atlantic, you doofus, and we were returning over the South Pacific, which, by the way, was the name of a really great musical from back in the late 50's..."some enchanted evening..."; thank you, Rogers and Hammerstein), when the voice of our pilot, Captain Art Sencrafts, came over the intercom.

"Pope, you, Mike and Harley might want to buckle in now, it looks like we're going to run into some unusual turbulence as we make our reentry," he said.

I turned to my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one who does all the Hanes underwear commercials), who looked back at me with what I suppose was the same quizzical look I had on my face on his face. Harley looked puzzled too, but then, Harley always looks a little puzzled.

"What's this all about?" I said, as we buckled into our "boost" seats.

"Beats me, maybe there's some weather thing over LA," Mike responded, as he turned to help Harley with his special harness.

""Weather thing over LA"? Since when are there "weather things" over LA in July?"

"Yeah, well, who knows, may..." Mike's sentence was cutoff, mid-word, when the ship suddenly lurched to the starboard side and then made a steep drop, like the floor had fallen out from under us.

We came to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the drop, and then lurched again, this time to port, and then the ship seemed to right itself and level off; problem was, looking out the portholes, we weren't in upper stratosphere of Earth, where we should have been. Instead, we were cruising right along, with a dark, starless night outside, and no planet below us. In fact, it didn't look like there was ANYTHING outside the windows.

It was as if the Earth, all the stars, all the planets, all the nebulae, and the platypuseses, everything was gone. Then I blinked, and everything dropped back into "normal" mode.

Just then, Captain Sencrafts burst into the passenger cabin. "Is everyone all right?" he asked us, a little wild-eyed.

I looked over at Mike and at Harley, and they both nodded. "Yeah, Art, we're fine. What happened?"

"Well," he says, "I calibrated the freem generator to 36.89 prions, and I think I should have been 36.87 instead, so when we came out of HyperAromaDrive, we were "skewed" a little."

I looked at him skeptically. "Skewed?"

"Well, off slightly. Anyway, when we reentered, it caused a drop in the liquid kanooten pressure, which resulted in an unequal zolar level, and that caused the ship to yaw to the side, then down. Sorry, guys, my bad."

Considering how shaken he looked, we all just nodded and went about picking up ourselves and our things, which were all over the cabin.

Art laughed a nervous laugh, as he started to help us clean up. "You guys ever read that story by Stephen King, "The Langoliers", or maybe see the movie?" he asked.

Mike and I both nodded. "Yeah," Mike said, "I've read the book. So what?"

"Remember the part where they first saw the "time rip" and King describes it as kind of like the "aurora borealis"?

"Yeah."

"Well, just before we made reentry, I thought I saw something, like a wavery, rainbow-kind of thing, just off to the south. I tell you, for a moment, it was real spooky. That whole "Langoliers" thing crossed my mind right then, and all I could think was, boy, I sure hope we don't end up in prehistoric times." He ended with a nervous laugh, and rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Back to the time of the cavemen and the Neanderthals, huh, Art?" Mike said, laughing.

"Yeah, bottom of the 4th, two out, Cavemen leading the Neanderthals 3-1, with Aaron Watershow due to bat next...".

I waited until everyone was finished laughing, and then I asked them a question.

"Seriously, have you guys ever known or dated a woman who didn't think all men were Neanderthals?"

Mike looked at Art, and Art looked back at Mike and I looked at Mike, and he looked back at me, and Harley looked at the pantry where we kept the Girl Scout cookies, and to a man, we all shook our heads.

"Nope."

Love and archeology,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

The Attack Of The 26 Foot Tall Marilyn Statue

I'm impressed.

According to the report from AP (that's media "insider" talk for the Associated Pull), written by Don Babwin, "Some of those who took pictures of the sculpture called "Forever Marilyn" were surprised when they came around the side and back of the sculpture and saw honest-to-goodness lace panties on the movie icon."

The 26-foot tall sculpture was recently unveiled in the Daley Plaza in downtown Chicago, home also of the infamous "Picasso" statue, as well as the collection of fiberglass, multicolored "cows" from several years ago.

Now I suspect most sculptors would have just made the area underneath her dress "flat", showing nothing.

But give the artist, Seward Johnson, some credit; he went for, and to mind achieved, total realism.

Lace panties, no less. I'm really impressed. So a big "Atta' Boy" to Mr. Johnson, for his wonderful, and totally realistic, depiction of the subway scene with Marilyn Monroe in the movie "The Seven Year Itch", which also starred Tom Ewell. A great movie, and a great scene showing an incredibly beautiful, and amazingly voluptuous young woman, out enjoying a stroll on a summer's evening with a friend. (I have to figure out how to make friends like that.)

And wasn't "The Windy City" the perfect location to imagine a breeze blowing up a young woman's skirt? I should say. ("My kind of town, Cleveland is..."

Thank you, Seward Johnson; you're my kind of guy.

Another thing that impresses the shit out of your Pope Guy is how difficult it is to come up with topics to write about, several times a week. I'd like to crank out a post on the soothing balm of Johnism every day, but there's only so much sin and evil that needs to be addressed in the world. I mean, you people aren't THAT bad, for crissake.

So I really have nothing else to tell you today, other than to be good, and if you can't, don't get caught. And don't call me if you do; with collections down the way they are here at the All John All The Time World Church, there's no more budget for bail money.

You get busted, you're on your own.

One other thing, then I'm off to my weekend activities with the Harley Dog.

I see where Arnold Schwarzenhooven, the ex-governor of CA, is back in the news again: this time it's something other than his divorce square-off with almost ex-wife Maria Shriver. Apparently, "The Sperminator" has been signed to role in a new movie called "The Last Stand", where TS "plays a cop who leaves the LAPD in disgrace and takes a job in a sleepy border town." (FYI, Maria and Arnold, I was very relieved to hear your son is going to be all right after his surfing accident. You two may be total douche-bags, but your kids, well, they're kids, and they're hands-off. I'm glad he's okay.)

Actually, I had heard that some big movie company was thinking about making a modern version of the 1982 "classic" (using the term loosely), "Conan The Barbarian", and would depict TS as an aging, disgruntled ex-Eastern European Communist official, trying to make his way back to Russia and the "good old days" before the USSR collapsed. The tentative title of the new flick was "Conan The Hungarian", but leaders of the former Communist country put a big "nyet" on the project when they were informed of TS's likely affiliation with the movie. Apparently, Hungarian officials didn't want any more to do with TS than Maria does.

(A number of years ago, I was watching a Marlins/Dodgers game, and the Marlins at the time had a left-fielder named Jeff Conine. At one point in the game when Conine came up to bat, Vin Scully, the venerable announcer for the Dodgers, launched into one of his little "personal" asides that he likes so well, and began talking about Conine's scholastic career, including the fact that Jeff had a degree in Library Science.)

(And I thought to myself...

...wait for it...

..."Conine The Librarian"?)

Anyway, it's going to be sunny and in the mid-80's here in the bucolic and totally over-rated San Fernando Valley, so me and the HD are going to wash the Popemobile and then maybe head down to the beach. And of course, my Dodgers are playing this evening, against the Washington Nationals, who beat the Boys In Blue 7-3 last night, once again allowing people from our nation's capitol to screw up our private lives.

Will it never end?

I think Harley and I need to make a "Missionary Trip" to the Windy City to check out the new Marilyn sculpture.

I don't know about HD, but I've never seen lace panties that big, and I don't want to miss the opportunity to say that I had.

Boy, this gives a whole new meaning to the term "Amazon".

Love and REAL movie stars,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Flaming Iguanas (And Hiram, The Three-Legged Hero Pig)

Flaming Iguanas.

Yeah, don't tell me that wouldn't be a great name for a rock band.

Flaming Iguanas.

It could also be one of those real fancy "on-fire" desserts you get in those snooty restaurants where, when the waiter first comes to your table, he introduces himself as "Ferdinand", and tells you that he will be your server this evening, and then hands you the "Kiddie Menu" to peruse, because he can tell, just by looking at you, that there's no way in hell you can afford anything on the regular menu.

"...and our dessert specialty for Tuesday is baked Flaming Iguanas, covered in a rich boysenberry sauce. With pickles."

Okay, none of that has anything whatsoever to do with your Pope Guy's message of the soothing balm of Johnism for today. No, today we're going to talk about "scanning electron microscopes", no, wait a minute, I already talked about that a few weeks ago. How about if we make our topic for today: "Boogers: Gross Expectoration Or Miracle Adhesive?"

Ring...ring...rin

"PJTT...hey, Mike, what's up?...uh-oh...yeah...yeah...so why do we have to go there?......they said what?...that's a long way to go to just for that...oh...no, never heard of him...yeah, we can check out both while we're there...sure...okay, but when HD and I get back, how about we check out a Dodgers game, whatta' say?...yeah, that would be great...okay, I'll call you when we get back...hey, tell the guys in back to start getting the Kidding ready, okay?...thanks...yeah...hey, have you seen my copy of this month's "DDD Beauties"?...okay, maybe Harley has it...later."

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan, (no, not the one that used to live in Chicago); he tells me that the Bored Of Elders of the All John All The Time World Church have a "missionary trip" they want Harley and I to go on. (Harley? He's my roommate, sidekick, sparring partner and backup navigator when we're onboard the Royal Unionship Kidding, my atomic powered rocket ship, which we affectionately refer to as the RU Kidding for short; that's his picture over there --->. Handsome devil, isn't he? Just like his owner. Hey, there's a picture of the RU Kidding over there as well. Fine ship, wouldn't you say?)

It seems that the staff here at the AJATTWC alerted the Bored Guys to a situation down in the Philippines ("Pines Of Phillip"?) that the Bored wants HD and I to go investigate and then do what we can to spread the message of the soothing balm of Johnism. (The Bored Guys get paid by the convert.)

So we're off in the morning on the Kidding to the Philippines, to check out the story about...

...not using geckos (you know, geckos, small, green lizards, icons of Geico Insurance) as a medical cure for impotence.

Now when the RRMMJ told me about this assignment, I had no idea why the Bored thought that using geckos to help people who have an inflated view of themselves, well, it just didn't make any sense. Why do they care if somebody in the Philippines thinks they're special? I just don't understand what one...shit, damn phone hasn't stopped ringing all morning.

"PJ...Mike, I'm right in the middle of writing my post for today, what's up?...it's what?..."imPOtent", oh, I thought they were saying "important", for crissake...yeah, that changes things completely...yeah, okay, thanks."

My consigliore again; he tells me I, well, let's just say I had a slight misunderstanding of my assignment.

Since the Kidding is capable of speeds up to and exceeding the Speed Of Aroma, we can make the "jump" to the Philippines in about 1.36 hours, or about as long as it took Lindsay Lohan to screw up after she was released from "house arrest" recently.

Up, up and away...

(Later the next day...)

So we arrived here in the sweltering Philippines today, and immediately contacted environmental officials here to explain why they feel people shouldn't use geckos to treat impotence. We were granted an audience with Dr. Gary Indiana, a Filipino/American doctor who recently was named as Director of their national health agency.

Dr. Indiana told us that he didn't particularly care if Filipino's used geckos to treat their impotence problems or not, but that since an 11-ounce gecko, which is apparently the average size of your average gecko, is right now selling over the Internet for at least 50,000 pesos each, which is about $1,160.00 in good ol' American dollars, he wants this illegal trading of these animals halted until he can figure a way to get in on the action.

I looked at HD, and with a dismissive shake of our heads, bid Dr. Indiana a good morning and got the hell outta' there. There wasn't much either Harley or I could do for this guy.

Besides, that was only one reason we were sent to the Philippines.

It seems as though one of our Bored members, Brother Terry Cloth, heard of a miracle that had allegedly taken place on a farm back in the Filipino hills outside of Vanilla, the capitol of the Philippine Islands, and that was what they REALLY wanted me to check out when we were there.

We already knew the location of the farm where the supposed "miracle" took place, so we hopped on our rented Vespa (hey, collections are down almost every Sunday these days, so you save where you can, okay?), and headed up into the hills.

We arrived at the farm a little after lunch, and when we knocked on the door of the small, but very neat farmhouse, a short, balding man dressed in rural clothing answered the door. We introduced ourselves and explained why we were there. His name, we learned, was Petras Moss, or Pete as he was known in the small village where he resided.

"Oh," he said, "you want to know about Hiram, my pet three-legged pig."

"Was this the animal that was involved in some kind of supposed miracle recently?" I asked him.

"Yeah," he said, "that's the one. Come on, I'll introduce you to him."

So he took us around back to a pigpen behind the house, and there in the pen was a normal-looking, pretty much every day pig, except for the fact that it only had three legs; it was missing it's front left leg, along with hoof, fur, etc.

"So, Pete, how did Hiram come to lose his front leg?" I asked. (Harley decided that Hiram was too big to eat, and went back to take a nap in the shade of our "chopper".)

"Well," says Pete the Filipino farmer, "that's a great story."

"This was last July; I came out one morning, figured I'd do some plowing that day, needed to bust up the middles, so I went into the barn and got my plow and all the rigging out, and I was just starting to hitch up the team to the plow when a dog-faced water snake (honest, I didn't make that one up, it's indigenous to the Philippines) crawled out from under the barn and spooked those mules somethin' awful. They heaved up on their rear legs, snortin' and tryin' to stomp that snake, and with all the jumpin' around and such, they pushed me right over on my back with the plow right on top of me, and as I hit the ground, I heard my arm go snap, and I knew she was broke, sure enough." He took a moment to look over at Hiram in his pen.

"Yes, sir," he says as he turns back towards me, "ol' Hiram really saved my bacon that day, pardon the pun."

"Why is that?"

"Well, that ol' snake, he's tryin' to get away from those mule's hooves that are landing on the ground all around him, and he turns and starts wriggling right towards me. Ol' Hiram sees this, sees I can't get up with the plow on top of me and my arm all twisted around funny, so he jumps over that fence there around his pen, charges right at that snake, and before the snake could turn to meet him, Hiram gets his snout up under the snake and "throws" that sucker back under the mules, who then stomp the shit outta' of it. So then Hiram runs up on the back porch, snortin' and gruntin' and making all kinds of noise and 'bout that time, my wife hears all the commotion and runs outside to see what was going on and, well, I guess you could say ol' Hiram saved my life that day."

"Wow," I said, "that's an amazing story. Did Hiram still have all four of his legs back then?"

"Oh, yeah, he didn't lose that front leg of his until just this past spring."

"How did he lose his leg?" I asked.

"Yeah, Hiram there, he's a hero in this house, best pig ever," he said. "Don't know that I've ever seen a smarter one than him."

"You know, you're probably right, Pete, but tell me, how did he come to lose his left front leg?"

"We let ol' Hiram start eating his meals with us in the house; figured that was the least we could do for him, you know, since he saved my life and he's a hero and all. Yes sir, that Hiram, he's a special pig, I'll tell you what."

"Okay, right, Pete, but how did he lose his leg?"

"You know, we've had lots of media people out here, asking about Hiram, ever since the accident; he's sorta' our "reality star" here in the village, people coming by, stoppin' to see him and all." ("Why Emm Cee Ay, it's fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A...") (Okay, "village, people", get it? Geez.)

"Pete, HOW DID HIRAM LOSE HIS LEG??" I finally screamed.

"Oh," says Pete, "Hiram's a great pig, a hero. You don't eat a great pig like that all at once."

Harley and I returned to the bucolic but always sunny, at least when it's in season, San Fernando Valley the next day.

Love and ham sandwiches,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Monkey Business

Due to security considerations, the Bored Of Elders of the All John All The Time World Church has never allowed a picture of your Pope Guy to be released previously; according to my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan, (no, not the one who owns the Charlotte Bobcats), the Bored was further concerned with possibility that a photo of me, once in the hands of the public, could not only be a security risk, but might also be used by unscrupulous persons to scare small children.

But after working on them for the last few weeks, they finally relented and allowed me to release to my adoring followers a picture of myself, suitable for framing, so that anyone who so chooses might enjoy the comfort and solace of having the walls in their home graced with the pleasing aspect of their Pope, smiling down on them in their day to day lives.

WARNING:

THE SEGUE THAT SHOULD APPEAR IMMEDIATELY AFTER THIS SENTENCE HAS BEEN REMOVED. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.

There was an article on MSN.com the other day, an interview with Mr. "1950's Attitudes Towards Women", Hugh Hefner. Seems like Hugh is a little perplexed, and not a slight bit wounded by his recent jilting by former fiance, Crystal Harris, who cancelled their walk down the aisle just a week before the media event was to take place. (Just for the record, Ms. Harris is a youngish 26 years of age, compared to Hefner's mere 85. FYI, and let this rattle around in your brain for a moment, but Hefner was born in 1926. That's correct, opera lovers, Nineteen Twenty Six.)

(Three tortoises at the L.A. Zoo just dropped dead from shock.)

So Crystal found true love with somebody else, huh, Hef? Maybe somebody less than SIX DECADES older than she is, I don't know, maybe someone who wasn't born BEFORE the Stock Market Crash of '29.

I'm sorry to gloat, but it sure looks like a textbook case of being "hoist on your own petard" there, Hugh. And for all the women who were ever screwed over by this douchebag, this one's for you, gurls.

Oh, yeah, the picture above isn't me (I have a lot less hair); no, that's a "self-portrait" done by the animal after being given a digital camera by photographer David Slater; Slater has a whole slew of these photos in his portfolio. (I just wanna' know one thing; how does he get the camera back from the animal?)

Now I don't normally write a "post" on Sundays, agreeing with the thinking of the Creator that Sunday should be a day of rest and watching sports on TV, unless you're watching the Cubs, which shouldn't be under the heading "Sports", but rather under "Comedy" in the TV Guide.

But I felt compelled to provide my faithful followers with at least a brief message with the soothing balm of Johnism, especially if you consider that I haven't written a new post since 7/13. ("Laziness" was NOT one of the Beatitudes: "Blessed are the lazy, for while they accomplish little, they're well rested".)

I wasn't really busy with other matters, or at least not too busy to write a new post, but you know, I just didn't want to. Hey, I can be petulant, I'm human, too. Sometimes, I just don't feel like it.

But knowing how so many of you hang on my very words, look to me for guidance, for solace, for comfort, for the words that will make the message of the soothing balm of Johnism clear and accessible to all of you, I just couldn't shirk my duties any longer.

It's an enormous responsibility, a tremendous burden...and it's all mine.

Dodgers/D-backs today, from the warm, temperate climes of Phoenix AZ (temperature outside at game time yesterday, which was 5:00pm local, was 104; Chase Field, where the Diamondbacks play, is a domed, air-conditioned stadium, which I suspect was NOT what Abner Doubleday, the guy who invented baseball, had in mind when he started his book-publishing business); should be a good one, even with the Boys In Blue struggling the way they are currently.

Hey, baseball is our national pastime, don't forget, despite what the Kardashians believe to the contrary.

Oh, the "soothing balm of Johnism" thing?

Hell, I'll get back to that tomorrow; today, I have a baseball game to watch and maybe later the Harley Dog and I will take a nice, long and leisurely walk. That'll give HD an opportunity to make some new friends.

It's all about priorities, right?

Hey, Hef, sounds like Crystal had her "priorities" in line, whatta' think?

Love, baseball and matrimony, not in that order,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

The July 2011 NO BULLetin

"When in the course of human events it becomes...", wait, that's not how I wanted to open today's post.

Let's try that again.

As is the case once every month, more or less, it's time for the All John All The Time World Church's "NO BULLetin", which this month is chock-full of all kinds of interesting and important announcements and news for all you loyal followers of your Pope Dude, John The Tall (and incredibly smart). I've got so many items to bring you this month that I think I should get started right away. (What, you thought I would tell you about the bulletin and then not let you read it? What is that?)

*Men's/Women's Club Ball Game Outing Cancelled*

            As you can see from the picture above, taken at the ballpark by Brother Al Berkerke, the exhibition baseball game that had been scheduled between our local team, the Barnville Buttwads and the visiting Chicago Cubs, which the Men's and Women's clubs were supposed to attend in a combined Church outing, had to be cancelled just prior to the game.

            I don't want to say the Cubs are bad, but that's their won-loss record coming into town just ahead of them.

            Brother Justin Tyme suggested that we see a basketball game for our next outing. (Yeah, anybody but the Miami Hate.)

*AJATTWC Now Has BINGO*

            That's right, followers of the Pope Guy, the AJATTWC will now host a weekly Bingo game, to be held in the Church Meeting Hall, every Whitsuntide evening at 45:03lm. Prizes will be awarded and refreshments will be served afterwards.

            So come on down to the Church Hall next Whitsuntide and get in on the fun; there will be a grand prize for the evening's top winner of $535 Gazillion, (from which a small honorarium to your Pope, say of 1/2, would be appropriate), and there will be other prizes, and a raffle for a door prize as well. (Windows will be available to those of you who don't need a door.)

            Sister Rosemary Enthyme is in charge of refreshments and asks that anyone who would like to bring a dish to please contact her. (Bringing something in the dish would be super too.)

*Announcing the "JOHNER OF THE MONTH"*

            Due to her steadfast support of your Pope and his ministry, (not to mention the donation to the Church of $6.32), the AJATTWC is pleased to announce that...

Marlo Bernier of

Sherman Oaks CA

...is the "Johner Of The Month" for July 2011, and as such will receive a small, boiler-plate certificate that proclaims the above to the uncaring world. That and 5 bucks will get her a Mocha Frappacinno Cinnamon Latte Camshaft Ertle Vente at Starbuck's.

            Nice going, Marlo!

*Softball Team Tryouts*

            Anyone interested in joining the AJATTWC Co-Ed Softball Team should sign-up for try-outs in the church office before Schnootday, 7/56. Brother Painin Guerrier will be organizing the team, and plans to manage as well, and says that the team will be competing in the Midwest/All Galactic Church Softball League and PAC, and will play a schedule of 162 games this year, with playoff and championship rounds at the end of the regular season, and then will undertake campaign fund-raising activities for ANYONE other than Sarah Plain And Loud.

            All players must have their own glove and "cup", (women as well) and Brother G, you can stop bragging about needing a "24-ouncer" for yours.

*Concert In The Church Hall*

            Next Arborday, 7/.6, the Church will host a concert in the Church Meeting Hall, featuring the Hornwater Doo Dah Band from South Wales and North Dolphins; the band features lead singer Mike "How's Your Sister And Your Wife? She's Fine" Krophone, and they will be performing, amongst other selections, their recent hit, "Do It To Me Again, Without The Hammer This Time".

            Tickets are $9632.00 each, and can be purchased in advance by seeing Sister Holly Woode in the Church office, or can be purchased at the door on the night of the concert.

            Come on out and let's have an old-fashioned orgy, err, good time.

*Women's Club Bake Sale*

            There is no Bake Sale scheduled at this time; however, there has never been a NO BULLetin that didn't contain an announcement for a "Women's Club Bake Sale", and I didn't want to disappoint anyone.

*Think Tank Report*

            The AJATTWC-sponsored think tank, the Center For The Serious Consideration Of Weighty Matters, has released their monthly "progress" report, according to Center director, Dr. Bill O'Lading.

            According to the report, the Center is currently engaged in a study of long-term dating among singles in today's fast-paced, social network-ruled world, and Dr. O'Lading says that, as part of this study, his researchers at the Center have discovered a pick-up line that works with 100% effectiveness.

            An experiment was conducted by Center personnel, in which a researcher, who is closely monitored off-site by specially-installed video cameras and hidden microphones, approaches an attractive woman in a single's bar and asks, "Excuse me, but I wonder if I could ask you your opinion; does this cloth smell like chloroform?"

As we noted above, Dr. O'Lading's staff reports 100% effectiveness, using this method.

I'm sure the entire congregation and staff here at the AJATTWC, as well as myself, would like to offer Dr. O'Lading and his team a huge hug, and a warm blanket, for their efforts; it's good to see that the donations from you loyal followers of your Popeamundo are being put to good use.

*Teen Club Meeting*

            Sister Brooke Trout, President of the "official" AJATTWC club, "Teen Spleen", tells us that the kids are planning a meeting for next Bastilleday, 7/111, at 15:30 at the home of Teen Club sponsor, Sister Kelly Green, at which time members will discuss and finalize plans to attend the Grand Opening of the new Abercrombie & Fitch store at the local mall. Sister Brooke would like to invite all AJATTWC teens to attend; she says they want a strong turnout for the event so that A&F can have the highest "child exploitation" factor they can achieve at the new store, for which they will then over-charge you for clothes that will last slightly longer than the snow that fell in your yard last January.

            Have fun, kids, and enjoy the propaganda.

*Prayer Requests*

            ~Sister April Showers asks that we remember her father, Brother Possible, who is having surgery next week to have a in-grown head removed;

            ~Brother Stan Enbecounted asks that we remember our President, good ol' BO, and his efforts to be reelected to the White House, the success of which would save us from that bunch of mental giants that the Republicans are thinking of nominating;

            ~Brother Count Urchange asks that we remember his pet iguana, Earl, who died suddenly of an intestinal disorder last week. Funeral arrangements are pending.

*Please Patronize Our Sponsors*

            The Bored Of Elders of the Church asks that you patronize the local merchants who so willingly support our activities, even the goofy ones. (Our goofy activities, not our goofy sponsors.)

-The Law Firm of Dewey, Cheatum and Howe, Attorneys At Law

"We're in it for the dough."

            www.MyLawyerCanWhipYourLawyer.com

-Sam's S&M Dungeon and Pizza Parlor

"Tie Me Up and Feed Me Pizza"

227 North Bondage Ave.

-L.A. Beautiful-"It's Time For Your Dream Body"

            Visit us at www.labeautiful.com

            All Types Of Plastic Surgery including:

            -breast augmentation

            -breast lifts

            -male breast ("moobs") reduction

            -hammer toe, (and "screwdriver ear")

            -facelift

            -tummy tuck

            -and many others

            Receive $1000 OFF any qualified procedure with this bulletin

            Free Limo Service with qualified procedures

(The above is an actual ad that appears periodically in the L.A. Times. Other than the "bulletin" part. You can check out the website if you don't believe me. Only in LA.)

Love and hymnals,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Sorry, No Pope Today (But As Long As You're Already Here...)

I have to apologize to all you loyal followers of His Popeness, John The Tall (and devastatingly handsome); you will have to do without your Pope Guy's message of the soothing balm of Johnism for today. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I was unable to get into the headquarters of the All John All The Time World Church this morning, and therefore was unable to write my (almost) daily post for all of you.

As you can see from the picture above (above), the infamous 405 Freeway was closed earlier today, due to not only the construction taking place currently, but the unfortunate accident that occurred between a large truck carrying a load of live sheep, which were them spilled out onto the pavement, and a small man lugging a wash basin full of hot water. The sheep were eventually rounded up, and order was restored to the West side of LA (pronounced LAH).

Now normally right here I would ask you to please check out the archives of my past essays on the soothing balm of Johnism, which of course you're still welcome to do, but today I'm going to suggest something else as well...(the Harley Dog barks in the background)...

...no, I'm NOT going to suggest anything like that, you canine pervo; geez.

Anyway, as long as you're already here, why not take a moment and either:
a) check out the video of the "Pope John Cheer" or;
b) look through the archives as I already suggested or;
c) here's an idea: why not scroll down the page and sign up to receive your Pope's messages as either an email or an RSS feed, so you never have to miss my deathless prose again.

Wow, what a deal, as much fun as you can have with your clothes on, yes?

Okay, go sign, go archive, go fish, whatever, and have a great day while you're doing it...

...because we might never see tomorrow, and I don't know about you guys, but if I woke in the morning dead, it would seriously piss me off.

And probably ruin my day as well.

Love and spam,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

As I Was Leaving My Cave This Morning...(Part II)

I should have known.

I am a firm believer in the old adage that virtue is it's own reward; in fact, I'm inclined to think that there should be no reward for acting virtuously OTHER than the knowledge of your own good deed. If you need recognition or gratitude for your noble acts, then it rather defeats the purpose.

So there your Pope Guy was, not exactly feeling virtuous, but certainly doing the self-congratulatory thing I think most less-than-perfect people (that would pretty much be most of us) do when they know that they've acted appropriately and well at a moment of moral or ethical dilemma.

For the rest of this story to make sense, or at least whatever sense can be garnered from my silliness, you really ought to go back and read my post from 7/8, because that's the "Part I" to which this post is "Part II". (The Bored Of Elders here at the All John All The Time World Church demands that I use proper accounting procedures and methods; ergo, Part II will necessarily follow Part I.) Okay, you folks that didn't already read "Part I", you go now and check it out, while the rest of us wait here...go ahead, we'll wait.

(In the meantime, while we're waiting for those doofuses to finish Part I, did you guys hear the one about the two drunks who were leaving a bar REAL early one morning, having spent the majority of the previous evening being gratuitously over-served by a uncaring bartender, with arms around each other's shoulders as they wended their way out the door and onto the adjacent sidewalk, staggering more than just a little at the Herculean effort. Lying on the pavement, right in front of the bar, was an old, mangy-looking stray dog, who was at the time of being nearly fallen over by the two drunks, vigorously licking his nether regions.

            The one drunk stopped suddenly, almost knocking his companion to the ground, looked at the old dog and turned to his inebriated partner and said, "Man, I 'rish, I wish I, I could do that," and then belched a good one.

            "I don't know," the other drunk replied, as he stood back and cast an bleary but appraising eye at the dog, then started shaking his head, "he rooks, looks kinda' mean to me.")

You guys all done with Part I? Great, back to the story. (Oh, FYI, I have a neighbor named Oded Rosenblum; backwards, that Dedo Mulbnesor (pronounced DEE-DOE MULB-NE-SOR. Just thought you should know that.)

So after deciding that your Popemeister was an okay dude for behaving myself like a gentleman with my almost new employee in my other life as a struggling entrepreneur, I was walking around the headquarters of the AJATTWC here in the sprawling and always confused San Fernando Valley with what I suspect was an annoying sense of self-congratulation. Hey, I walked the walk and talked the talk, put my money where my mouth was, I stepped up to the plate, use whatever dumb euphemism you want, I had practiced what I had preached. Yay, Pope.

So after chronicling my moment on the cusp of decision for posterity in "Part I", I called my other employee, the TGP, just for a blow-by-blow replay of the job interview with "Harold".

Now keep in mind, TGP stands for "Trans Gender Person", and like for so many of us and our particular afflictions, there's a community of souls out there that loosely band together because they share a commonality; in this case, it would be because many of them have an unusual arrangement of sex organs. (I imagine they make Hammond organs in Hammond IN, right? But I'm damn sure they don't make sex organs there, because I've got relatives all OVER Indiana, and I am absolutely certain, knowing them as I do, that there is NO reason at all to own any kind of sex organ in Indiana. What would you use it for?) So there's a reason why a TGP would know a Harold, who would know Penelope, who would network with Susan, who has a neighbor named...got the picture.

"Hey, TG person, how you doin'?" I said to the TG person when "she" answered. Actually, I just said "hi".

"Hi, Pope. So, how did you like "Harold"?

(Now I want to make something clear right now, before I go any further. Back when I was writing "Part I" of this saga, I had to choose a name to use an alias for my almost new employee, you know, sort of a "names have been changed to protect the bewildered" thing. Since unusual names seem to more readily fit my style (???) of writing, I like monikers like Penelope, or Ezekial or, in this instance, Harold. I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT MY TGP WAS ABOUT TO TELL ME UNTIL SHE...TOLD ME. So when I chose "Harold" as an alias, it was completely inadvertent and done unknowingly.)

"You know, I really liked her, she has a nice presence, her background is good, transportation didn't seem to be a problem, it had a good beat, you could dance to it, I'd give it an 88," I told her.

"So, are you going to hire her?"

"Well, I don't know, there's the sex slave thing from a few years ago, hey, I'm just screwin' with..." And I stopped dead, mid-sentence, because it suddenly occurred to me that something very sinister and devious might be taking place here, and in that moment, I knew fear.

"Shit," I said, evocatively.

"What?"

"Damn. Okay, please don't make me ask."

"What?" My sudden realization that fuckery most foul had been perpetrated upon me by my current and future employees, and the 180 degree turn in the conversation that resulted, had rendered my normally voluble neighbor into a tape-loop of "what".

"I'm not going to ask, shit, I can't ask, even you."

Apparently it suddenly dawned on TGP what I was talking about. "Oh," she says, very matter-of-factly, "Harold is a TGP also, I thought you knew that. She's post-op."

Now under any other circumstances, the "normal" reaction from most guys would be "Yeewhew", or something even a great deal stronger than that possibly. But I even surprised myself with my first reaction to the news: "Yeah, I thought she might be."

That was my first reaction.

My second reaction, internally, was more like:

WHAT, ARE YOU KIDDING? THAT BEAUTIFUL, VOLUPTUOUS, BLUE-EYED, BLOND-HAIRED SUPER-BABE I WAS TRYING NOT TO DROOL ALL OVER USED TO BE A GUY? ARE YOU KIDDING? (I tend to repeat myself in times of extreme agitation.) THAT GORGEOUS BABE, WHO I DID EVERYTHING I COULD NOT TO STARE AT HER TITS, THAT WAS REALLY A HAROLD PREVIOUSLY? WHAT THE HELL IS THAT ALL ABOUT?

Shit.

I honestly don't give a lusty crap what my (not almost) new employee has for "equipment" between her legs, any more than I give a damn about her religion, her politics, her stand on same-sex marriage (I imagine I can guess that one) or anything else about her personal life. I only care about one thing: can she do the job? And if she can, will she do it well?

I can't imagine why anything else would be relevant.

I found myself very attracted to Harold; she was very good-looking, she had style and class and I'll bet she's really interesting, and I'll also bet her story is an amazing one. Even after I learned of her "past", I still thought she was "hot", although as an employer, I'm not allowed to think that. Actually, I can think it, I just can't say it out loud, so you didn't hear me say I thought my new employee is "hot"; just ignore that.

So now I REALLY have some considering to do; I need to contemplate my reaction to my new worker. I'm surprised and a little perplexed at what I'm feeling about the whole affair. (Interesting choice of words, eh, what?)

I'll tell you one thing for sure: the first time Harold tries to kiss me goodnight after a gig, I'm...well, I'm not sure what I'll do. (Yeah, I know, I'm flattering myself, but I'm allowed; hey, I'm the Pope, gotta' love me.)

You know, life was a lot simpler when there were only two genders. Granted, I was never sure if men were the "opposite" sex or women were, but I'm betting on men, given our track record. Most guys I know could screw up a two-house paper route, when it comes to relationships/women.

I wonder what kind of music Harold likes?

Love and androgyny,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

As I Was Leaving My Cave This Morning...

I'm going to attempt to tell this story with as much tact and diplomacy as I can muster. (I just went downstairs to my neighbor's place to borrow a cup of good taste; I hope it helps.)

My name has been submitted by the staff here at the All John All The Time World Church for consideration for the annual "Most Courageous Man" award, given each year to some deserving gentleman out there who, by the standards we all hold near and dear, rises to an occasion and comports himself in a brave and undaunted manner when faced by the vagaries that life has thrown in his path.

Got all that? Okay, here we go.

Full disclosure: Your Pope has another job, besides dispensing the message of the soothing balm of Johnism to all my loyal followers and other seekers of the truth along the path of enlightenment. While its an unfortunate necessity at this juncture in the history of the AJATTWC, as we are just getting started on our mission of bringing the message of Johnism to the masses, that because revenues are limited, (last week's collection brought in $26.88, plus a couple of coupons for Milkbones; Harley was pleased), it's necessary for your Pope Guy to have other employment besides his Pope gig. But hopefully not for long, as we work to establish the Church as a "premier", one-of-a-kind, media-savvy religious organization. You know, like the Roman Catholics.

Without getting into a lot of details of my "other" life, suffice to say that what I do to supplement my Pope wages is legal and borderline ethical. Sometimes. (No, I'm not a politician or a Scientologist.) And as part of my operation, I have to occasionally interview, and hire, part-time employees. I only have two, but I do have to replace them periodically. (They wear out; who would have thought it?)

(And no, the Harley Dog is NOT an employee, despite his constant attempts to have himself put on the payroll and be given benefits: he thinks next year's annual bonus for furry executives should be all the Milkbones they can eat; I told him okay, I'll give you the gig, and the 'Bones, but there's a condition; all he has to do is carry them out of the kitchen without using his mouth.)

One of my current employees is a neighbor of mine who happens to be a transgender woman. (Welcome to Southern California; I wish I could remember the person who once described SoCal as "being similar to a bowl of granola: what isn't fruits and nuts is flakes".) I knew "her" when she was still "him", and I don't mean to insinuate anything about her by the "fruits/nuts/flakes" thing; what she does with her life is totally her business, and I do not sit in judgment. Its just that, back in the Midwest where I'm from, you don't get too many opportunities to hire people who used to have testicles, and now don't.

She's a very nice person, she does a nice job and she's a big fan of the Pope, although that wasn't why I hired her originally. (I conducted a lengthy job interview with this lady; scene: out on the sidewalk, in front of our building, getting the mail. TGP (transgender person) approaches Pope, says hello. Pope responds, hey, how you doin', you still looking for a part-time job? TGP says yes. Pope says, when can you start? TGP says yesterday. Pope says, do you do drugs, and do you have any? TGP yes to both, Pope says you're hired, end of story.)

Unfortunately, after a few months of successful "employeeship", my TGP is leaving me, to move on to greener pastures. (I think that only works for sheep, but whatever.) But she said she had a friend that was looking for work, and would I interview her for the position? Sure, I said, I'd hire Jack The Ripper if his background check came out okay.

So it was with no particular thoughts one way or the other about the situation that I went to meet my TGP and her friend, Harold, (the names of the innocent have been changed to protect the guilty), at a local cafe to "interview" Harold for the job opening.

The ladies were seated at a table when I walked in, punctually as always, and rose to greet me as I approached. (I arrived punctually, the girls weren't sitting at the table punctually, you doofuses.) The first thing I noticed about my prospective new employee was that she was unusually tall for a woman, standing almost eye to eye with me. I'm 6'2', tall by "normal people" standards, short for the NBA and the source for my name PJ The Tall. (As the Brits would say, ripping bit of a connection, what?) We all shook hands and came out fighting.

Harold had slightly longer than shoulder length blond hair, blue eyes and appeared to be a woman in her mid-thirties. She was very attractive and very pleasant, had a nice confidence about herself, and after we ordered coffee and sodas, we talked and I found out that her background was good as well. (There was a Picasso print on the wall behind her.)

Now I admit to being a man rapidly approaching "tortoise" age (some sea tortoises have been known to live up 150 years, right up there with redwoods and Dick Clark), but beyond that I am, above all else, two things: a) a guy, which means I'm a hopeless horndog most of the time, even given the advanced age, and b) not dead. I would lie down if I were; it's a courtesy thing.

So at one point in the conversation, my TGP, my almost new employee (I had already decided to hire her, I just hadn't told her yet) and I were discussing some of the requirements of the job, one of which is to, because it involves the proper handling of food, wear a head-covering at all times. (My folks wear ballcaps.) Since what I know about the fine art of women's hairstyles could be put in a thimble, I deferred to the "girls" on how to best wear one's hair when required to place a ballcap over same.

Now how in the hell I missed it prior to this point is beyond me completely, but I suddenly became aware of the fact that my almost new employee was, how can I say this delicately, rather well-endowed? (She wasn't in the league with Norma Stitz, the lady with the 105ZZZ-sized bra that I wrote about in my post on 7/5, but she sure as hell wasn't going to be confused for an eight-year old boy by any means, either. Or a thirteen-year old girl for that matter.)

I pride myself on the fact that I am an old-fashioned gentleman; I'm polite to people, I hold doors for folks, I say "please/thank you" at the appropriate times (Mom would be proud), and I treat women like ladies until they prove themselves to be the contrary. And I qualified myself for that nomination when my almost new employee leans back in her chair, puts her hands behind her head into her long, blond hair and twirls it up into a bun, with the most amazing display of "rackage" I believe I have ever been privileged to almost see...

...because I was a true gentleman, and never took my eyes from hers. Stared right across that table, into those big, baby blues and thought to myself...

...if I look down, I'm screwed. If I let my eyes sink to her chest, I have, intentionally or not, confirmed all the horrible things that women believe about men, all of which are true, of course, but I don't want to be the Neanderthal that validates the theory.

But why do I have to be the pillar of strength and decency here? I don't want to wear this mantle, let somebody else be noble and uplifting. Me, I want a gander at those tits.

The duality was terrible; I would not allow myself to give in to temptation ("...papa was a rolling stone, wherever he laid his hat was his home...". Motown; thanks guys.) and stare at this woman's breasts, even when they're sitting there, calling me, daring me to do so. Just like the no-hands kid on his bike, hey, Mom, look at me, look at me. (Imagine being stared at by two sixteen-inch softballs.)

It was awful.

I earned that "Courageous Man" award in the next few moments after Harold exhibited her amazing bosoms while demonstrating for TGP and I how she would "style" her hair up under her cap to maximum efficiency. After holding her hair in place for about a three-count (just when I started to perspire), she let it down and lowered her arms, eliminating the Grand Canyon view and letting me off the hook. It was a gruesome three seconds that I'll remember for a lifetime.

I hope Harold works out; I really liked her and I think she will be very good at the work we do.

But I'm instituting a new dress code for my employees, something I have never done before. In the future, all female (duh) employees with a bra size that requires more letters than numbers will be required to wear loose-fitting, voluminous (look that up in your Funk and Wagnall's) garments that in no way reveal the wearer's gender, let alone their physical attributes. No more surprise "rackage" views for this Pope Guy.

It's a damn good I didn't take the Harley Dog to the interview; wouldn't that be just great, trying to get to know someone so you can hire them for a job, and all the time your dog is humping their leg under the table.

And if Harold had held her arms up for another three seconds, I would have been on the floor with Harley, trying to push him out of the way.

Love and harassment suits,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Does Macy's Have These Problems? More Departments, If You Please

I just thought you folks might like to see a picture of my new, well, more on her below.

Okay, scene from "Snow White And The Seven Dwarves": the dwarves (now known in our PC world as people who are "vertically challenged"), marching along, singing "Hi ho, hi ho, its off to work we go", and I'm thinking, shit, they sound like they're stoned hookers with a stutter.

(Popephone rings in the background)

"...PJTT...hey, Mike, how was your Fourth?...you guys were at that game? Cool. So, what's up?...I did what?...oh, "stutter", what did I say?..."Shutter"? So it came out like I was talking about hookers who were high carrying window treatments?...shit...well, too late now, huh?...yeah...okay, yeah...hey, would you see if the girls in the office can line up four tickets to the All-Star Game next week?...yeah, you, me, the Harley Dog and, well, a friend...never mind, "who's that?", that's my business...okay, lemme' know, thanks."

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away...wait, sorry, wrong story.

That call I received was from my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan, (no, not the one who golf's with Charles Barkley); he noticed a small error in my first paragraph and wanted to bring it to my attention. (Working for the All John All The Time World Church is sometimes like living in a fishbowl.)

Your Pope was all over the map last week, with "missionary" trips to all kinds of Godforsaken places like Port Collection Of Trees WAH and a city in Holland where a guy named Johan Huibers is building a replica of Noah's Ark, and we almost had to haul ass to Radnor PA, but considering the problem there, I was REAL glad when that trip got axed. (You guys will just have to go back to my post on 6/27 to find out what that was all about; here's a heads-up: it was gross, which I suppose applies to a lot of what I write about.)

So along with my roommate, sidekick and backup navigator onboard the Pope's "official" atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, affectionately known as the RU Kidding, and no, that's not three different persons, they would all be the Harley Dog, we finally made it back to the bucolic and hotter than the, as my Mother used to say, "hinges of Hades" San Fernando Valley, home of the headquarters of the AJATTWC. (Apparently there was a hinge factory located in Hades in which my Mother had some interest.)

I was finally able to check in with my various Department Heads (lettuce, cabbage, waiter, etc.) and get fully up to speed on what's happening in the world around us, and by sharing with all of you their reports, I can a) edify you and b) further spread the message of the soothing balm of Johnism. So with no further ado, or adon't, here we go:

*From the Boy, Did I Get That Backwards Department*

            According to a report from AP, (that's "insider" talk from us media gurus for "Associated Pull"), a Mexican women recently "was caught trying to sneak her common-law-husband out of a Mexican prison in a suitcase following a conjugal visit."

            Now this is a novel attempt at jailbreak, but that's not why I included it in my report. No, the reason you're reading about this lady and her wayward "husband" was because when I first read the article, I thought SHE was the inmate, and HE was visiting HER, and I couldn't figure for the life of me why she was smuggling HIM out, or for that matter, since I thought SHE was the prisoner, how SHE was even pulling a suitcase with HIM in it and...well, this is what happens with advancing age. First it's not understanding an article about stupid jailbreaks, then next thing you know, its Depends and drool-cups. Shit.

*From the Great, Now Those Drones At The DEA Will Declare ANOTHER Front In The War On Drugs Department*

            In his newly released book (and I love this title), "The Compass Of Pleasure: How Our Brains Make Fatty Foods, Orgasm, Exercise, Marijuana, Generosity, Vodka, Learning, and Gambling Feel So Good (and a big Amen to all of the above, other than fatty foods and gambling, unless its just a fin on whether the Cubs will be mathematically eliminated from the pennant race by July 1st, then it's okay, and a good bet), author David Linden talks about how animals will "voluntarily and repeatedly consume psychoactive plants and fungi". (And who could blame them?)

            According to Linden, the list includes birds, elephants and monkeys that scavenge for naturally fermented berries as well as African boars, porcupines and gorillas that ingest the hallucinogenic iboga plant, as well as goats that are getting a cheap rush by munching on wild coffee berries and, of course, the "infamous magic mushroom-loving flying reindeer". (???)

            I just hope this doesn't become a problem with domesticated animals; I'd hate to have to lock-up my stash to keep it from the Harley Dog.

            Hey, do any of you guys know where I can score some iboga plant?

*From the Can't We Make Them Take IQ Tests Before We Elect Them? Department*

            Anthony Weiner.

            John Ensign.

            Eliot Spitzer.

            Bill Clinton.

            Newt Gingrich.

            Mark Sanford.

            Arnold Schwarzeneggar.

And on and on and on...

            Geez.

*From the Speaking Of That Asshole "The Governator" Department*

            Maria Schwarzeneggar filed for divorce from her philandering mental-midget husband, citing as reasons for the breakup, "a complete inability for the Plaintiff to understand how the Defendant, a man who seemed to have everything life could offer, including financial success, artistic acclaim (?), a beautiful and adoring wife and children and a burgeoning political career could be such a hopeless, only thinks with his gonads, horndog". (Actually, I made that all up, but you have to admit, if I'm Maria, and I'm glad I'm not, because I don't like her anymore than I like him, that's how I would have had my attorney draw up the divorce papers.)

            What a jerk this guy is, and even better, aren't all the geniuses in CA proud of their votes for him for Governor? Good job, guys, and who's next? Charlie Sheen for Attorney General?

            Geez again.

*From the Does Anybody Have Two Wheelbarrows And Some Rope I Can Borrow? Department*

            Okay, I finally got to the "picture" above, and so help me, I did not make up this name, nor the story: Norma Stitz, the woman (no shit, Mr. Obvious Man) who, according to the Guinness Book of Ale, err, sorry, World Records, has "the world's largest natural breasts". Norma's monster hooters are a size 102ZZZ, which translates into 3.5 feet of cleavage and an individual weight of 56 pounds EACH. (Imagine having two second-graders stapled to your chest; yeah, there you go.)

Norma recently appeared on a British TV show, "This Morning", (as opposed to "That Morning", I would think), to discuss what it's like to have over a hundred pounds of boobers at your beck and call every day. "You know, life ain't easy for a boy named Sue," she commented, "although my name's Norma, so I wouldn't know anything about that."

            I intend no belittlement of Ms. Stitz; I cannot imagine what it would be like to possess breasts like these. I have a female friend (no shit again, Mr. OM) who's breasts were so large that she finally had a reduction done, so it must not be much fun. Ms. Stitz also works for several Internet porn sites, so things can't be too bad for her, either.

Okay, remember the four tickets to the All-Star Game I asked Mike about when he called earlier?

Hey, I thought maybe she's a baseball fan and would like seeing the Game next week; I mean, she's probably back from England by now, it would be a chance to get to know her, find out what she's all about, you know, spend some "quality time" together.

I can see the headline now: "Pope Killed, Smothered By Tits".

Love and Maidenform,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.