I'll Call You From My Landline

When I was just a mere Popeette of about 4, I had an experience that I suspect had a profound impact on who I became later in my life as an adult and as the leader of the All John All The Time World Church. Although this took place back in what seems to have been the Triassic Era, when men were men and dinosaurs didn't give a crap, being a lot bigger and being the possessor of much larger teeth, all the better to eat you with, my dear, I still have the memory of the event, tucked away in one of the deep recesses of what purports to be my mind. (By the way, man and dinosaurs never existed on this planet simultaneously, the Flintstones to the contrary.)

My father, Harvack, who was an Etruscan from the planet Caladium, was repairing an electric table lamp one day, with my able and necessary assistance. (At the ripe old age of 4, I'm sure I was a tremendous help to my Dad. I recall an incident, some years later, when my father remarked to me, after I had pestered him incessantly to allow me to "help" to the point of driving him to drink, for which he was just looking for an excuse to do anyway, "Do you want to help me?"

When I eagerly replied that it would be my fondest desire in life to assist him with whatever household chore he was doing at that time, he looked me in the eye and said, "Good, the best way you can help me is to go away and leave me alone." A wonderful example of father and son bonding.) Actually, my old man, despite how he probably sounded from his above remark, was a pretty good guy. We were never really very close; I was the youngest of three kids, and the second of his two sons, the first being my older brother Harshamla, who my sister and I, to this day, refer to as P.A., which stands for Pompous Ass, an attitude my big bro attained early in life. I came along late in my mother and father's lives, and by the time I was old enough to grasp what was happening in our house, Dad was working a million hours a week to put together a "nest-egg", as they referred to it back then, so he could eventually retire at the ripe old age of 59. He was busy, and we just never grew close. I think my Dad liked me (and I think my Mother didn't), but it was a case of too little, too late. I'm not complaining here, merely commenting.

So my father was repairing the electrical cord on a table lamp this fateful day, and determining that the plug was culprit for why the lamp wasn't working, had taken pair of wire cutters and snipped off the plug and about three inches of cord; of course, there was a small amount of bare wire exposed where he had made the cut with the snippers. (I remember the doctor who performed my vasectomy kept using the term "snip", which I felt was wildly inappropriate, considering we were discussing my genitalia.)

Being the enterprising child that I was, I decided to determine just what exactly this whole electricity thing was all about, and proceeded to pick up the faulty plug from where my father had dropped it on the table, walked to the nearest wall socket and inserted it into the slots. Of course, the results were instantaneous and predictable. The electricity that was stored in the wall socket took immediate advantage of the path I had provided and surged out of the wall, down the short length of wire that was still connected to the plug and into my four-year old hand. Fortunately, I wasn't standing in a puddle of water at the time or you wouldn't be reading this now.

I remember the two lessons I learned from this incident vividly; one, given a proper conduit, electricity will flow unimpeded. To this day I have no idea what keeps it in the socket when the socket is devoid of "plugs"; it's obviously some kind of arcane and wonderful magic. (Actually that's not true at all; I have an excellent working knowledge of things electrical, but there are times when it does seem...magical.) But the very nanosecond you present a viable path for it to flow through, craphouse mouse, here it comes. Second, although 110 volts of household current will not kill you, unless you happen to be standing in that puddle of water I referred to above, it will give you cause to never, ever desire to come in contact with it again. Needless to say...well, if its needless to say then I won't say it. (I hate that stupid cliché, "needless to say"; well then fine, all you dumbshits that continually use the phrase, don't say it then.) Suffice it to say, (yeah, that's better), that the introduction of 110 volts of electricity into the hand of a four -year old produces an immediate cause/effect continuum in the life of said four-year old.

About 15 minutes later, after the shrieking had died down, and my mother had castigated my old man vigorously for being an asshole, I was assured that I would live, most likely with no permanent scars. (Try convincing a four-year old of that; I remember being pretty sure I was going to die; in fact, even in my at that point undeveloped four-year old brain, I was pretty sure that death might in fact have been a big improvement to the pain I was experiencing.)

So it was with great interest, and no small amount of trepidation, that I read a report in the Los Angeles Times recently that a study had been conducted by some group of scientists someplace, and that they had determined that the electromagnetic activity surrounding the antenna of a cell phone produces a discernable disruption in the brain-waves at the point where the antenna is closest to your head. True story.

Now I know that there's a great deal of difference between the electromagnetic activity of a cell phone antenna and standard household A/C (that's "alternating current" for you non-scientific types); despite all indications to the contrary, I'm not that stupid. But I don't know about you, but the idea that ANY qausi-electrical device that is operating in that close proximity to my brain, and that the activity of said device is having measurable impact on said brain, seems to me to be cause for some alarm. Don't kid yourselves; it may be minute, but that's electrical current that's coursing through your cell, every time you use it.

Now the study only observed the phenomena; it didn't attempt to measure the actual effect on the brain, which of course in the case of Charlie Sheen would have been negligible, given how much brain he seems to possess. But the brain-wave interruption by the electromagnetic field of the antenna was, apparently, irrefutable.

I'm not a big user of my cell; I have one (hell, just about everyone in this country over the age of five has one these days), but it has never been as prominent in my life as it is in so most people's lives these days. (Did you see the video that went viral recently of the lady in the mall who was so intent on what she was texting that she walked into a fountain? It was either that or she just felt like a quick dip in the pool and was telling someone about it before going in.) This event alone would seem to indicate the existence of brain damage from the overuse of cell phones (and if that's the case, you have to wonder what the excuse for that level of stupidity was prior to cell phones becoming so popular).

The report went on to state that the need for further study was undeniable; it also went on to say that the possibility that your brain would start to leak out of the ear you don't use for your cell was excellent, assuming the possession of said brain previously (see Charlie Sheen remark above).

So all you users of iPods and Peapods and iPhones and SmartPhones and 4G devices and wireless kanooten valves are all destined to quickly become brain-dead, flesh-eating zombies in the near future, much like several of my ex-in-laws.

And when that happens, rest assured the only cure available will be electro-shock therapy, which, as your Pope Guy can tell you from his own personal experience back all those many years ago, is something to be avoided.

Love and voltmeters,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

The Missionary Position

Now and again, as the Pope Guy and leader of a major religion, such as the All John All The Time World Church, it becomes necessary to head out and do some missionary work, so, later this afternoon, Harley and me (poor English but a nice referent to the movie "Marley And Me", where the Harley Dog's part, "Marley", Harley Dog being the offical canine of the Popester, is played by a mischievous Yellow Labrador Retriever named, cleverly, Marley, whereas HD is a Golden Retriever and much cuter, and the part of "Me" is played by Jennifer Aniston and, boy, talk about miscasting, because I'm WAY taller than Jen, amongst other things) are headed off in the Royal Unionship Kidding, or RU Kidding for short, to explore uncharted territories and bring the Gospel of "Johnism" to any pagan cultures we may encounter in the wilds of...

...Naples FL.

Now let me provide those of you who are not followers of the Pope and the AJATTWC a little background information: the RU Kidding is the official (as in "Wally's Worms and Wigglers: The 'Official' Provider Of Bait And Tackle To The NBA") atomic powered rocket ship of the Pope (that would be me), and is an interplanetary cruiser capable of speeds in excess of the Speed of Aroma. HD and I take the Kidding all over the place, to other worlds in our Galaxy and, occasionally, on short hops like the trip we're taking this afternoon to Naples. (For example, we recently took the Kidding to the planet Xanthous for a conference of religious bigwigs, which I describe in my post of 2/22/11; Xanthous is 2.69 gazillion parsecs from Earth, which is WAY farther than I can hit a gerbil off my balcony with a seven-iron.) Given the close proximity of Naples to LA (pronounced LAH), where the headquarters of the AJATTWC is located, as compared to say, the planet Exador, which is in South America...wait, that's "Ecuador", sorry...at the Speed of Aroma, we can get there in about 27 nanoseconds, or slightly less time than it would take for Rosie O'Donnell to scarf down an entire box of Eskimo Pies.

Earlier this week I directed my staff to do some research on where a missionary trip to introduce folks to "Johnism" would seem to be most needed, and most effective, and after much scrutiny of whatever facts and information they scrutinized to arrive at their recommendation, they decided on Naples FL. Now, pray tell, oh Pope Person, why Naples FL, you may ask, and your curiosity would coincide with mine, because that's the first question I asked. After they explained, it made all the sense in the world to me.

Their research found that, according to NBCMiami.com, a young woman named Hersha Howard from Naples was recently arrested and charged with aggravated battery and aggravated assault in a brutal attack of her roommate over the unauthorized consumption of a box of Girl Scout cookies, specifically Thin Mints. As all connoisseurs of Girl Scout cookies are certainly aware, the Samoas and some of the other flavors, as opposed to Thin Mints, are definitely not worth giving a roommate a good beating over. And given her apparent proclivity for chocolate, Ms. Howard's first name would seem to be a harbinger of her "addiction".

According to the Collier County Sheriff's Department, the altercation between Ms. Howard and her roommate, who was not identified, was instigated by Ms. Howard when Howard discovered that the roommate had given Howard's children the box of Thin Mints as a snack, unaware that Howard had forbidden the children to have them. Apparently this was an offense so grievous and of such monumental proportions as to cause Howard to awake the roommate from a sound sleep in the middle of the night, make the accusation of wrongdoing and then begin to beat the roommate, even after said roommate offered to pay Howard $10, as compensation for the now eaten box of Thin Mints. The roommate was able to escape Howard's onslaught and run from their apartment, at which time Howard chased her into the front yard of the building and continued her attack using, according to the police report, "a sign". (Pisces, possibly?) Police were summoned by neighbors, and upon arrival, arrested Howard on the above charges.

When interviewed by Sheriff's deputies, the roommate commented that she was very glad that the cookies in question hadn't been any other flavor, because she was convinced that Ms. Howard would have killed her over the Thanks-A-Lot. (On those infrequent occasions when your Pope has suffered from the horror of "reefer madness", I can personally attest to having the urge to kill for a Girl Scout Thanks-A-Lot cookie, or any other kind for that matter. Or a whole box of them.)

After reviewing this episode, my staff determined that if there was any place in the Galaxy that was in desperate need of the soothing balm of Johnism, it was Naples FL, given the circumstances of the above story. Which is why HD and I are headed there later today to begin our missionary work. We were going to leave earlier, but were delayed when the little girl from down the street, the one wearing the green uniform and beret, brought me the cookie order I placed with her several weeks ago; I'm not going anywhere until I have a handful of Thin Mints and a big glass of milk.

I also informed the Harley Dog that if I caught him scarfing down any of my cookies, I'd beat him like a rented mule. The threat, however, proved unnecessary when I discovered that the young lady had also brought Harley HIS order, which I hadn't known he had given her, of several boxes of Thanks-A-Lot cookies. When I attempted to remove the TAL's from him to put them away so we could leave for Naples, the ungrateful mutt growled at me and led me to believe that if I cared to remove his cookies, I did so at the risk of losing an extremity.

He's in the kitchen as I'm writing this, trying to pour himself a glass of milk, which of course he can't do, not being the possessor of opposable thumbs.

And since he growled at me, I refuse to help him.

I figure my chance will come later tonight; he has to go to sleep sometime.

Love and pastries,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Reefer Madness_Part II

As your favorite Pope Guy, which isn't much of a distinction, given that I'm probably your ONLY Pope Guy, I find it lends credence to my leadership of the All John All The Time World Church when I share with my followers stories and anecdotes of my personal life, making me seem more human and more accessible to those to whom I have become something of an authority figure. (That and it gives me a lot of material for my silliness.)

If you didn't read my post from yesterday, 2/21, where I started to chronicle for you a day in the life of an apprentice meat-cutter stoned on marijuana, you might want to go back and do so, because it will give you a beginning point and a frame of reference for today's post. (Go ahead, I'll wait....)

...okay, glad you're back.

Picking up the narrative where I left off previously, (..."when we last saw our hero"...), Bruce, Jack, Chris and myself, well into the throes of being really "annihilated", left the hotdog place after finishing lunch and returned to the store to continue our workday; easier said than done, however, as we all learned when we got back.

Now we were all just barely past being kids, but we weren't stupid; both Jack and I were married guys with families, and Chris and Bruce were using the money they made working at the store to fund their college educations, so none of us could afford the luxury of losing a job for using drugs. (I would suspect having that on your resume would make employment interviews very difficult.) So when we got into the parking lot of the store and got out of Bruce's car, Jack, the unacknowledged leader of our little band, cautioned everyone to "be cool and act straight", and then started giggling. We all nodded our understanding, and then joined him in his laughter.

As I explained in yesterday's "chapter", the meat counter in the store where we worked was the old-fashioned type, complete with number dispenser and clock-like thingies on the wall to indicate which number we were "Now Serving". We all donned our aprons and those repulsive little paper hats we always wore, and went to work.

Of course the first problem we encountered was sharp implements; lots of them. Hey, it was a "butcher shop", to use the parlance, complete with boning knives, "butcher" knives, several bandsaws and a couple of serious-looking lunch meat slicers, which, by the way, scared me then and still scare the hell out of me today. Ever see of these monsters up close in a deli or sandwich shop? Imagine a 12" circular scalpel, rotating at about 5000 RPMs, over which you're passing a chunk of bologna or salami back and forth. Within millimeters of your fingers. (I'm literally getting the chills as I write this. God, I really hated those things.) And cleaning one of these diabolical machines was enough to give anyone nightmares, because at least when you were using them, they had "guards" that provided some protection. Once you took one apart for cleaning, there was that razor-edged blade, which had to be pulled, very carefully and delicately, from the machine and washed, by hand, in a sink. Not a fun duty, by any means. Yeah, your local grocery store Meat Department can be a very dangerous place any time, but particularly so when you're under the influence of some really good "smoke". (As I said yesterday, looking back, this had to be one of the MOST stupid things I have ever done.)

The other problem we faced was customers, and maintaining some semblance of normalcy, not an easy thing to do in our respective conditions. Ernie, one of the younger "journeyman", became aware that we were all giggling like schoolgirls and trying to hide the fact, and got suspicious, but Ernie was mostly a dipstick, so I don't think he ever figured out what was going on. (Ernie had an interesting trait; he was Italian, and I don't know what his daily diet was, but the man was afflicted with the most awful flatulence to which I have ever been exposed; he was brutal. And since he found his "affliction" humorous, he thought dropping "bombs" all over the department was hilarious, a point of view that the rest of us did not share. I'll never forget the time that Ralph, the department manager and a rather fastidious, prissy kind of a guy for a butcher, unwittingly followed Ernie into the men's room, just after Ernie had visited same for his daily, just after lunch, BM. We all knew not to follow Ernie in there, but Ralph had been doing something in back and hadn't seen Ernie go and come back; we were all watching for Ralph when he returned, anxious to see his reaction, Ralph being given to occasional bouts of melodrama, and he didn't disappoint us. He stopped in front of the first cutting block he came to, leaned over, supporting himself with his hands and began shaking his head and muttering, "My God, the guy is sick, nothing alive should smell that bad", which of course we all thought was pretty funny. Ralph did not share our concept of what was humorous.) (Ralph also was the possessor of a glass left eye, true story, to replace his real left eye, and he had never confided to anyone that I know of how the eye had been lost. If he was talking to several of us at a time, it was real tough to know specifically to whom he was giving directions; his good eye would look right at you, but the other one might be looking at you, or maybe at whoever was standing next to you. It could be very disconcerting.)

The very first customer I waited on when I called "35", or whatever, was ALL the way down at the far end of the counter from where I was standing and calling; the meat counter, being the better part of 50 feet in length, and my condition, made it something of a journey to get there. I walked down, asked the nice lady with the winning number what I could get for her, and she asked me for a pound of ground chuck. Easy enough. The ground chuck tray was about in the middle of the counter. So I turned, started away, got most of the way down to where I was going, and forgot what the lady wanted. (Remember, I'm deep in the throes of "reefer madness" at this point; simple actions like, say, breathing, required serious thought.) So I turned, walked back, and asked the nice lady to repeat her order, which she did. So I turned away again, intent on not forgetting this time, got all the way down to the far end of the counter, totally blowing right past the ground chuck tray because, once again, I had forgotten what the customer had asked for.

Somehow Bruce caught on to the fact that I was having a problem, and as I'm standing there, desperately trying to simultaneously remember what I had forgotten and to not appear foolish, he's poking Jack in the ribs and nodding at me as they're standing next to each other, wrapping the purchases of their customers in that white butcher paper that every butcher shop in the world used to use, and making fun of me. Assholes.

Well, since I couldn't remember what the lady wanted, again, there was nothing for it but to walk all the way back down the length of the counter, and ask her again. Fortunately for me, the nice lady customer in question was one of our "regulars", so I knew her well, and further fortunately, she knew and seemed to like me, so she just laughed a little and made some teasing remark about my faulty memory. Little did she know.

I was finally able to complete her order, and managed to get through the next half-hour or so, when the high watermark event of the afternoon took place. Thankfully, it was Chris this time that stepped on his johnson, not me.

Ralph, the same Ralph whose olfactory nerves had been so badly offended by Ernie's after-lunch bowel movement, had lent Chris his personal boning knife briefly, to cut something for a customer. While this was happening, Ernie had gone into the back cutting room to get a special order that had come in for a customer: a beef heart. He came out and left the beef heart sitting on the cutting block where Chris had just used Ralph's knife a moment before, and returned to the cooler for something else for his customer. When Ralph asked Chris where he had left his knife, Chris, busy with his customer, without turning, answered, "It's down there", and pointed vaguely, not being very specific.

"Where?", Ralph asked rather stridently, getting a little miffed. (He really hated it when one of us used his knife and didn't put it back where it belonged.)

So Chris, trying to juggle three things, listening to what his customer was saying, being seriously baked and attempting to answer Ralph, all at the same time, turned and announced, in a loud voice that was heard all over the department, including by most of the large group of customers standing on the other side of the meat case, "Down there, on the block with the heart on it", said block being in clear view of everyone.

Now he may have done it on purpose, or not, but when Chris made his loud answer, the word "it" didn't really come out of his mouth clearly; if you consider the sentence without the final preposition, well, you can imagine the reaction from everyone behind and at the counter.

Jack, Bruce and I, all being well within earshot, lost it. Ralph, standing just to the side of the cooler door, turned an interesting shade of red, his good eye watering vigorously while the other one wandered about, looking for a culprit. Several of the customers at the counter were laughing, but there were a couple of little old lady types who were quite shocked, to say the least.

And about this time, Ernie the smelly dipstick came out of the cooler and looked around at the commotion and inquired, with a befuddled look, "What are you guys laughing at?", which of course struck us all as even more hilarious, and we started laughing even harder. But here's the absolute topper of them all; as Ernie had come through the cooler door, this horrible stench wafted out with him, almost directly into Ralph's face.

I'm not sure, because you couldn't tell with all of us wearing aprons, but Jack was laughing so hard I think he might have piddled himself a little.

I won't tell you that your Pope and his friends never got stoned on their Saturday lunch hour ever again, subsequent to that fateful day, but I will tell you that we were a lot more careful after that.

And Ralph was equally careful to never follow Ernie into the men's room, ever again.

Good thing his glass eye didn't water.

Love and chicken breasts,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Reefer Madness

Way back in the late '70s, in my pre-Pope days, long before the All John All The Time World Church was established, I was a married guy with a family (me, the -ex and my beautiful daughter, Hezakiah, who we called Fred), working as an apprentice meat-cutter in a local grocery store in the suburbs of Chicago. (I'm not going to say where exactly, or use the name of the store, although the business is no longer there, because the family of the people who owned the store is still around, and discretion is the better part of pickle relish.) I was a young guy making my way through the world, taking care of my family and trying to get it right, and succeeding at least some of the time.

Now the company I worked for as an apprentice meat-guy (this was OJT, orange juice taster, err, on the job training) was an independent grocer, renowned for their fresh produce and meats. The store was probably 30,000 square feet, medium-sized by today's chain-store standards, and fully 30% of that was the produce department, and our produce brought people in from literally all over the county. Every morning around 3:00am, one the owners would take the store truck up to the "Market" in Chicago and come back with a load of fresh, just off the farm, fruits and vegetables, and this was WAY before the whole all-natural, organic thing that is all the vogue these days. In fact, the store had been started by the father of the then owners, as a farm-stand to sell produce his family grew right there on a 10 acre plot of land on which they eventually built the store. That was the good thing about the place, among a few others. The bad thing was that the people that owned it were a bunch of assholes to work for, but I was in the union, the pay was decent, the raises determined by our contract and it could have been worse. And I didn't have the great Pope gig I have today back then.

Besides the outstanding produce department, the other feature of the market was an old-fashioned, full-service meat counter. Remember those; you walked up to the counter, which was fully 50 feet in length, pulled a number out of the dispenser, (you know, the gizmo that looks like its sticking it's tongue out at you) checked out the clock-looking thingies on the wall that showed what number was being waited on at that moment, and then stepped up and told the "butcher" what you wanted when he called out "26", or whatever number you had. (Think Whole Foods meat counters, but a lot earthier somehow; and FYI, if your number was, say, "14" and we called "26", you couldn't walk up to the counter and order; it was kind of a rule we had.) The official union designation was "meat-cutter", but the older guys, the "journeymen", were butchers.

I was the only apprentice, and I got the gig by virtue of playing in a rock n' roll band with two of the sons of the owners, who apparently felt sorry enough for me to let me work there. The sons were good guys, just fair musicians, but we were friends and we had a lot of fun together. Their fathers...not so much. As the only apprentice, I mostly waited on trade, and did little actual meat-cutting; however, I still managed, over the four years I worked there, to, at various times, put six stitches in back of my left index finger, almost sliced off the end of the ring-finger of my left hand (can you tell I'm right-handed?) on a bandsaw, requiring another six stitches, as well as inflict any number of minor cuts to myself as well, including one on my right thigh with a boxcutter, opening a box of canned hams. (This is also the job I was working at when I had my vasectomy; all of above events were lessons that taught me a healthy respect for sharp instruments.)

One of my co-workers in the department was a guy my age named Jack, who had worked at a chain store in the area previously and had gotten his journeyman card there; Jack was ostensibly in charge of my training, being the youngest journeyman in the department. (Jack's favorite comment to me, when he'd see me standing in one spot, confused, was "John, do something, even if it's wrong.") Like most professions, I imagine, we had our own group of "inside jokes"; I remember hearing one of the older guys tell a lady one day that butchers ground their mistakes and doctors buried theirs. (I came up with a good one myself when I broke my finger playing softball and had to work wearing a small cast; when a lady asked me how I had injured myself, I replied, "Well, I really can't tell you, but don't buy the ground chuck today.") The worst of all was the day I heard one of the owner's sons, (not one of my friends) who helped out behind the counter occasionally, tell a young lady, who had enquired as to how someone would prepare beef kidneys, which really aren't meant for human consumption but are usually used as pet food, that "you take them and boil the piss out of them". The fathers weren't the only assholes in the families.

The only other "young guys" in the department, other than Jack and I, were two part-time college kids, Bruce and Chris, who worked a few nights a week and on Saturdays, our busiest day. (Personal note here: I haven't seen Jack, Bruce or Chris in over 30 years and I have no idea what became of any of them, but I hope they're all well and doing fine; good men all.) Since all of us were at the low end of the seniority ladder, it was this crew of guys that stayed late on Saturdays, after the store closed, to pull the meat case completely apart and clean it, with hoses and brushes, and other similar fun jobs. (The first time I pulled this duty, as I was leaning into the case as far as I could to clean the front glass, my butt sticking out and up, Bruce walked up behind me, stuck the nozzle of the hose in my back pocket and let'er rip. Fully initiated, and really wet, I was welcomed to the club.)

Since we had the Saturday evening clean-up duty, and worked later than the other guys, we took our lunch break after all the journeyman had returned from theirs, usually at 1:00pm, and we fell into a habit that, looking back on it now, had to be one the most stupid things I have ever done in my life. We'd all punch out, walk out to the car of whoever was driving that day, fire up a doobie and then go get something to eat.

Now a little background for those of you who have never "toked up"; this was the late '70s, and marijuana in those days, especially in the Midwest, so far from the source, could be wildly erratic in quality. Some was good, some was lousy, and some, like the stuff that Bruce brought the fateful day I'm going to tell you about, was killer. (I'm reminded of the scene in the movie "Up In Smoke", where the bass player for Cheech and Chong's band walked into the living room from the kitchen with a box of cereal in his hand, after they had all partaken, and remarked, laughing, "I'm annihilated.") On this particular Saturday afternoon in question, we got "annihilated".

The other piece of background info I'm going to share is this; the stories you hear about how marijuana makes you laugh uncontrollably (although nothing like in the movie "Reefer Madness") and gives you a case of the "munchies" are completely...true.

So we passed a joint around as we pulled out of the parking lot of the store, Bruce behind the wheel of his VW Bug, headed for a hotdog place just down the street about four blocks. To give you an indication of the "quality" of what we were smoking, although I can't speak for the others, by the time we got there, I was baked. Four blocks.

Deciding that we weren't likely to get service sitting in the car, we entered the hotdog establishment and sauntered up to the counter. Now some people are able to "maintain" when they're stoned; I, unfortunately, am not one of them. Chris and I went to one line, and Jack and Bruce another. Chris ordered, got his food, paid and then waited for me; I ordered, no mean feat by this juncture, got my food and proceeded to a table. Sadly, there was the small detail of paying for my order, which I had neglected to do. When the older lady behind the counter loudly pointed out this fact, I returned, giggling, and gave her what I owed her. Although she didn't say as much, the look on her face said that she was sure I was the supreme asshole of the universe. That, of course, only made me laugh harder.

We sat at a picnic table-like setting, with Jack and Bruce inside by the wall and Chris and I opposite each other on the end by the aisle. As we were eating, and still laughing foolishly, a young man approached our table and, clapping me on the back, said hello and asked how I was doing. He obviously knew me, for he mentioned something about a mutual friend. Unfortunately, I hadn't the slightest who he was, but I didn't care to admit it to him, in my diminished state, nor to be rude, so I just played along, nodding at what I hoped were the right places and answering in monosyllables, still giggling quietly (I think) to myself. After a few moments of one-sided conversation, with my side batting zero, the young man told me to take it easy and left. I thought he had walked out of the shop, but no, he merely took a table directly behind me, and of course couldn't help but hear when I loudly announced to Chris that I had absolutely no idea who he was. Jack and Bruce thought this hysterical, but Chris was still had sufficient wits about him to furrow his brow and motion with his hotdog behind me, so, surprisingly, I shut up; it wasn't until we were leaving however, that I figured out what he had been warning me about, when I stood up and noticed my still unidentified friend sitting at the next table, looking at me like he agreed with the counter lady that I was the supreme asshole of the universe. I slunk from the place, abject in my embarrassment, but only for a moment, because by the time we hit the lot, we were all laughing like proverbial hyenas again.

Tell you what: I've gone on long enough for today, but there's more to this story, so I'll pick up the thread in tomorrow's post.

I'd be ashamed of myself if I had the requisite smarts to do so.

Until tomorrow...

Love and rump roasts,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Pirates Of The Scarydream

After the Harley Dog and I got back from the planet Xanthous a few days ago, where I attended a conference of galactic spiritual and religious folks (and believe me, those two things are mutually exclusive in many cases, at least here on Earth), I decided we needed a few days of taking it easy on the SS Dee Dee, the Popesedential yacht. Yeah, I know, we did a lot of relaxing when we were on Xanthous, but that was business-related relaxing; its not the same as sailing on the Dee Dee, hanging out, enjoying the sea and doing gross guy things.

For those of you who aren't familiar with me, I'm Pope John The Tall of the All John All The Time World Church, and my buddy and official canine of the Church is the Harley Dog; he's also the backup navigator when we take my atomic powered space ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, or RU Kidding for short, out on voyages to places "where no man (or woman for that matter) have gone before". Like the planet Xanthous. We're off to the Caecilian Halcyon in the Rings of Anopheles next week, to visit the planet Hyperion, this time to check out some property the Church wants to purchase and build a cathedral upon, you know, something along the lines of the Crystal Palace down there in Orange County CA, only much less ostentatious, which shouldn't be difficult. (The Taj Mahal is less ostentatious than the Crystal Palace.)

Now the SS Dee Dee, as I said, is the official yacht of the Pope Guy, and she's a beauty: a 245 foot, twin-engined craft capable of 5982 knots (that's 38 mph to you non-nautical types, or piR squared plus postage and handling), sleeps 115 guests, (or about 75 NFL defensive lineman), has a swimming pool, beauty salon, casino, massage parlor, pizza parlor, several tennis courts, the Sears Tower (I will NOT call that building "the Willis Tower"; screw the jerks that bought it, they should never have changed the name), two pubs and its own zip-code. Yeah, the Dee Dee is totally cool.

We drove down to the dock where we keep the Dee Dee moored (SSDD, get it, come on you guys, turn the page with me), boarded and went about getting her ready to embark. (By the way, "embark" backwards is "krabme", just so you know. There's a street right down the road from my headquarters here in the sun-drenched, bucolic San Fernando Valley named Moorpark, which is "kraproom" backwards. Now don't you feel better knowing these things?)

We got underway and set sail for our place in the Sargasso Sea, on Snacilbuper Island (pronounced SNACK-ILL-BUPER; you can figure out what that one is backwards by yourselves); the autopilot had us on the right course, and the engines were humming as we cruised along at a nice, leisurely pace. I went below for an adult beverage (nothing for Harley; as far as I know, Harley doesn't drink, at least not in front of me) and we settled in for the afternoon. The sun was bright in the sky, a round ball of heat and light, and its light was a little blinding as it reflected off the water. There was an easy breeze from out of the south, warm and inviting, like a caress on your skin almost, and it made whitecaps on the waves as they broke. There was that fine, marine-salty aroma of the ocean wafting through the air, and as I sat with my feet propped up on the railing, sunning myself and enjoying the day, all was right with the world. It was warm, and exotic and warm, and pleasant, and warm, and we're drifting, and I'm drifting, lazily along with the current...

...riiing...riing...riing...RIING...okay, okay, I'm coming...geez, what time is it?...What...Mike, its 4:00am, this had better be good...they did, when?...you sure?...yeah, that's amazing news...yeah, okay, I'm glad you woke me up...yeah...hey, listen, while I'm thinking of it, are we still on for gerbil golf later?...cool...yeah, call me later...thanks.

My consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (not THAT Michael Jordan, he was the one in that movie "Space Jam" a few years go) just called to tell me the great news, and your Pope couldn't be more pleased. Boy, what a banner day for the planet this is; according to RRMMJ, Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton Hotel California announced at a post-Grammy Awards party last week THAT THEY HAD ENDED THEIR FEUD AND WERE NOW "BFFs" AGAIN. (You were aware that they were feuding, right?) I am ecstatic, and I'm sure the stock market will rise later today on the strength of this report; optimism will again reign supreme.

Kardashian and Hilton, or as they're otherwise known, the Wit Sisters, Half and Dim.

Of course, this was the second bit of earthshaking news to emanate from "Hollywood" recently; earlier this week, in a surprise development, Charlie Sheen, the star of the hit TV series, "Two And A Half Men", (I always wanted to ask which one was the "half") offered to give advise to Lindsay Lohan on how to handle staying sober, in an effort to assist her in her struggles to regain whatever little common sense, if any, she previously possessed. Unfortunately for Charlie, however, there is a statute in the California Penal Code (CPC 5268 sec(5d) (para L) that states as follows: "In the event that one totally incompetent "Hollywood Celebrity", said "Celebrityness" to be determined by the amount of times said "Hollywood Celebrity" is mentioned in the various tabloids and entertainment media for any drunken and/or drug-induced stupid act, such amount to be no less than five (5) times in any six-month period, offers advise on maintaining sobriety to another "Hollywood Celebrity" of equal or greater doofusness, such attempt at giving advise shall be termed "the blind leading the blind", and said "Hollywood Celebrity" offering such advise shall and will be immediately taken out and shot by the Sheriff's Department of the county in which the "blind leading the blind" offense occurs, to ensure that the spread of gross stupidity be halted as quickly as possible." Hey, Charlie, there are probably 150 families who are dependent on their incomes from being employed on your show who are now not working because you can't stay clean and insist on spending a great deal of your time stoned off your ass in hotel rooms, having drunken, drug-fueled orgies with hookers, or in rehab, which apparently isn't having much effect. How about if you let LiLo screw up on her own and you figure out how to get back to work so all the "little people" on "TAAHM" can get back to earning a living. You douche-bag.

I do so love living in LA (pronounced LAH); its one of the few places in the universe where the possession of an IQ that's roughly equivalent to a good golf score makes you an Einstein. With Hollywood having a lineup like this (Sheen, Lohan, Kardashian and Hilton) there's no way that Washington will ever be able to corner the market on doofusness.

And I hate it when someone wakes me up out of a dead sleep, especially when I'm dreaming; the older I get, the longer it seems to take me to get reaclimated to reality, not that there's a lot of reality going on out here in LA, all the dopey shows to the contrary.

I think Harley and I need a few days of taking it easy on the SS Dee Dee, the Popesedential yacht, which, by the way, was named for my ex-girlfriend, Dee Dee Spanxalot. You know, hanging out, enjoying the sea and doing gross guy things. Wait, that's where this whole nightmare began, up at the top of the page, isn't it?

Never mind.

Love and anchors,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

A Jackass In Any Galaxy

For those of you who follow the daily rantings, err, teachings of Pope John The Tall (that would be me) of the All John All The Time World Church, you'll recall that yesterday, the Harley Dog and I (Harley being the official canine of the Pope Dude), headed off in my atomic powered space ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, or RU Kidding for short, for the planet Xanthous, to attend a conference of galactic religious and spiritual leaders, to discuss this and that weighty issue and to "generally hobnob with my brother wizards" (thank you, L. Frank Baum; ...'lions and tigers and bears, oh shit...").

Because time displacement is an occasional unintended result of traveling at speeds in excess of the Speed of Aroma (such speeds being well within the capability of the Kidding), along with occasional corporeal displacement as well, due to non-nominal fluxes in the time/space continuum, even though in the "old" time of yesterday, we were just leaving, we are already back in my headquarters here in the bucolic, mostly sunny with a chance of rain San Fernando Valley "today" (in "new" time), even though Harley and I spent several days in transit to Xanthous, plus several days attending the aforesaid conference, during which time we also availed ourselves of a good deal of the Xanthousian's hospitality, (more on that in a moment) and then spent several days in return transit.

Did you get all that? Me either, but it sounded good, didn't it?

The conference was a grand success, and was well attended by such luminaries in the fields of the humanities, sociology, metaphysics, religious thinking and gerbil golf as Jder Con Huevos, Procurator of Murrhine, from the planet Zatox, Mastaba Abatsam, the Recotium from the Outer Nebulae of the Quaternion Halcyon, Welvel Yomama the Large, Ruler of All Duisters of the planet Huttwothreefour, and his brother Harold the Kaoliang, Kriiglfyt III of the planet Rescorcin, Emperor of Shamdar and many others. Yes, it was a gathering of great thinkers and moralists, which of course was the reason your Pope was asked to be there, if I may be so immodest as to say. (I also brought the chips and dip, so they were obligated to invite me.)

The Xanthousians are excellent hosts, and we enjoyed their cuisine (baked Krillion ebert in thrane sauce is one of their planetary specialties), their numerous recreational facilities, including playing several rounds of gerbil golf, which is a MUCH more interesting game in the 1/3 "gee" gravity field of Xanthous (can you whack one of those little suckers in a gravitational pull of less than a third of Earth's? I should say) and, of course, we visited their renowned nude-only, white sand beaches along the coasts of both the Green Boetian Ocean and the Quiba Sea, where any number of beautiful, three-breasted Xanthousian woman were in attendance, bathing luxuriously (and really nakedly) in the light of both the major and minor Zanthousian suns. And the nightlife was awesome; we visited a number of their nightclubs and after-hours spots that featured music and dancing from all over the Galaxy, with musicians from such far-flung places as Murrhine and Handelsmessiah, as well as dancers and comedians from such planets as Anopheles (have you heard the one about the two Kaolings that get lost on Zatox, and one of them leaves their ship to explore the area and gets bitten on the testicles by a banth, so his partner, the other Kaoling, calls frantically on the ship's radio to their Fleet Headquarters and finally gets through and explains what happened to the first Kaoling to the Fleet Doctor, who tells him he has to suck the banth venom out of the wound, or else his partner will die, so the Kaoling who made the call to the doctor runs back to his stricken fellow crew member and the banth-bit guy screams, "What did the doctor say?!?" and the other Kaoling screams back, "He says you're gonna' die, dumbshit!!!") and many others.

One of the topics discussed at great length at the conference was the insidious encroachment of Satan (yes, he's there even on other planets, that asshole) into our cultures and ways that we, as the moral and spiritual leaders of our various planets and congregations, might combat this evil. The subject was raised by your Pope Guy, when I recounted to my fellow attendees the story of how one of our greatest musical talents here on Earth, Billy Ray Cyrus, father of Miley, had been forced to face this dreaded menace in his own family. I told them of how BRC had shared with one of our planetary news "organs", GQ magazine, that not only were the Studios of Disney at fault for the collapse of his family unit, but that Satan, SATAN, had crept in as well to bring further moral and spiritual degradation to his loved ones.

To an alien being, all of my brother religious and spiritual big guys expressed dismay at this story, and each tsked, tsked and shook their, in some cases multiple, heads at the ignominy of it all, until the representative from the planet Caladium, Blutark, the Kaldane of Hoosier, rose from his seat and remarked, "Brothers in spirit, while I would in no way want to denigrate the mischief and pure evil that Satan is capable of, I have read many of the journals and news "organs" of Planet Earth, and after considering what I have read, it occurs to me that this Billy Ray Cyrus, father of Miley, is something of, to use the Earthian expression, a moron, and one wonders how much weight one should grant his tale? He seems unable to acknowledge his own failures in accepting any responsibility and accountability for the demise of his family, and, to be quite frank, would appear mostly upset about losing his meal-ticket when his equally inane daughter went out on her own, leaving his family adrift with no visible means of financial support. If it please this exalted conference."

Now when a "person" with the moral reputation and gravitas of Blutark, the Kaldane of Hoosier from the planet Caladium says you're a "moron", much weight must be attributed to his remarks, and his conclusions. And far be it from me to dispute what he said.

Gee, Billy Ray, not only are you a complete jackass on Earth, but you're an intergalactic one as well. That's impressive.

Love and weightlessness,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Second Star To The Right, And Straight On To...Cleveland

I decided this morning to accept an invitation I received recently from Noloc Moraine, the Tetrarch of Pyrites on the planet Xanthous, to attend a conference of religious and spiritual leaders of our galaxy that the Xanthousian High Council is holding next week on their planet, as a representative of the All John All The Time World Church. Attending conferences and meetings of this nature is one of the collateral duties of being the Pope Guy and leader of the Church, plus it gives me the opportunity to exchange ideas with and discuss and examine the positions of other galactic moral thinkers and also get away for a few days of well-deserved rest. (As you may or may not be aware, Xanthous has a lot of great resorts, with some superior gerbil golf courses, a number of superb restaurants (where several of them feature, as their specialty of the house, a baked Krillion ebert in thrane sauce, the Krillion ebert being a distant cousin of the Lower Zimbabwean ebert from our planet) and a shitload of white sand, nude-only beaches where native Xanthousians, as well as visitors from other worlds, congregate to lie around, sunbath and generally unwind. (Female Xanthousians bear a remarkable resemblance to Earth women, other than having three breasts, with which I personally have never had a problem; I am a firm believer in the merits of occasional excess.)

In order to make the journey to Xanthous, I instructed my ground crew do a full maintenance review and overhaul of my atomic powered space ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, or RU Kidding for short, to ensure it's airworthiness for a trip of this magnitude. (Xanthous, for you non-aeronautical types, is 2.69 gazillion parsecs from Earth, which is, as you might imagine, more than a few blocks. The "Kidding" is capable of speeds well in excess of the Speed of Aroma, but the journey to Xanthous will still require several days of travel. For comparison, the speed of light is a visual measurement, the speed of sound is an aural measurement and, accordingly, the Speed of Aroma is an olfactory measurement, and is considerably greater than that of light.)

Its sound like I really know what I'm talking about, doesn't it?

I also decided to have the official canine of the Pope Guy, affectionately known as the Harley Dog, accompany me on my trip, as my companion and backup navigator. (Smart dog, huh?) We've had to make several special accommodations for Harley, to allow him to be able to travel abroad the ship, such as a hydroponic "lawn" in the cargo hold of the Kidding, because "going outside" in a space ship is a big no-no, for obvious reasons. (Do you remember the scene from the movie "Apollo 13" where the character played by Bill Paxton, astronaut Fred Haise, did a "waste dump" and, as they showed the "golden shower" (all of you perverts out there, stop it right now) exiting the side of the spacecraft, his comment was "...the Constellation Urine, what a beautiful sight..." He pronounced "urine" as "UHRHINE", as though the word rhymed with the name of the river in Germany.) We also had to come up with a special spacesuit for Harley, and he looks adorable in it; the only problem is that he can't wag his tail because we had to keep it inside the suit for fear of radiation burns, because you don't want radiation burns on your butt, believe me. Or anywhere else for that matter.

We're leaving this afternoon around 3:30, which is Star Date 6532.158 on Xanthous; we're leaving a little earlier than I had initially intended because of a change in our flight plan. We were originally set to take route 529DL5 from Southern California, which would have taken us north/northeast over the Rockies, the plains and then, curving slightly further northward, over the Great Lakes region, including flying directly over the city of Cleveland, before entering a subspace planetary orbit, prior to the jump-off into HyperAromaDrive. But as of this morning, I decided to take the Polar route, 623HB8, to avoid Ohio. ("Second star to the right, and straight on 'til morning...")

The reason I decided to take the Polar route and not overfly Cleveland was to avoid the incredible stench that's arising over the city from the Lakers/Cavaliers NBA game that took place there last night, in which the TWO TIME DEFENDING WORLD CHAMPIONS (the Lakers, who also have the highest payroll in the NBA this year) lost 105-99 to the WORST TEAM IN THE NBA CURRENTLY (the Cavaliers). That's right, sports-fans, the mighty Lakers, whose lineup includes arguably the best player in the game today, Kobe Bryant, were out-hustled, out-rebounded, out-shot and generally stunk the place up so bad as to be ludicrous. Its a good thing Phil Jackson, their Hall Of Fame coach and winner of 11 NBA Championship rings, is a peaceful man and doesn't own a gun; if he did, I'm sure he would have been SORELY tempted to shoot those assholes afterwards. Prior to last night's game, the Cav's record was 9-46; yes, you read that correctly, they had amassed a whopping nine wins against forty-six defeats. Worse yet, the Cavaliers just ended, by beating the other L.A. NBA franchise, the Clippers, last Friday, a 26 game losing streak, which set not only an NBA record for futility, but a modern professional sports record as well; no team in ANY other professional sport has ever lost that many games in a row.

This loss was unconscionable; there was no way a team as talented as the Lakers should ever lose to the Cavaliers; it was the equivalent of them losing to a mildly talented college team. (Shit, they played the Cavs five weeks ago and beat them by FIFTY-FIVE POINTS.) This, this was...I have no words (and you'd better believe its a rare occasion that I'm speechless).

I have been a huge Lakers fan for many years, and it hurts me to do this, but I will make a fearless prediction here, and an offer to make a bet with anyone who's interested: One Hundred Dollars ($100) says the Lakers don't get past the second round of the playoffs this year. A C-note.

Einstein's Theory of Relativity (E=mc2) was based on the premise that, if you could accelerate matter (m) at the speed of light (c), squared (2), that said acceleration would produce energy (E); that's the basis of fission, which is what makes the atomic bomb work as it does.

But basketball isn't rocket science, and you don't have to be an Einstein to play the game. So I'm going to offer Dr. Jerry Buss, the owner of the Lakers franchise, the use of the RU Kidding, at his discretion, and then make this suggestion to him: take the entire team, all 15 of them, stuff their big, ugly carcasses into the ship's cargo hold and we'll send them off into the farthest reaches of the Caecilian Nebulae, where they can stink up that corner of the solar system all they want with their lazy play and lackadaisical habits.

At least I won't have to watch it then. Geez.

Love and space stations,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

From The Department Of Departments...

First of all, Happy Birthday to the best daughter in the universe, my kid, Kristina. I love you a gazillion, sweety. Have a great day!

I continually check in with my department heads here at the All John All The Time World Church, to keep abreast (or two) of news and "factoids" of information of which I, your Pope Guy, feel you should be aware. With your kind permission, I will share a few of them:

From the Aren't You Glad They Went To Euros Department-prior to the European Union switching to the "euro" as their official monetary unit, the currency of Poland was the "zloty", which is pronounced ZLATEE, I believe, (although it might be pronounced MUTORCS for all I know). Okay, so if the slang expression for our American dollars, among others, is "bucks", what the hell is the slang term for "zlotys", "cappuccinos"?

From the Mostly Useless Experts Department-did you know that the world produces 2.5 EXABYTES (and no, I have no idea how much an "exabyte" is either; I'm assuming its somewhere around a gazillion) of new information on the Internet EVERY DAY? I got this from an ad for the Jeopardy game show competition that IBM is sponsoring between its computer, which they call Watson, which doesn't make any more sense than calling it dodecahedron, and two guys who are acknowledged Jeopardy experts, whose names I forgot to write down. While it's a somewhat interesting portrayal of what computers can be programmed to do, to my mind, with all due respect, the only thing more useless than an expert on the game show Jeopardy is a cat (see my post from yesterday, 2/20/11). (I have learned since I wrote this post that Watson, the IBM computer, won the contest. Bad enough to be the repository of all that useless information, but then to get your butt kicked by a machine on top of it, boy, that's brutal.)

From the (Air)Plane Geometry Department-that the "dodecahedron" is "a solid figure with twelve plane faces". Just thought you'd want to know.

From the Really Old But Still Pretty Good Literature Department-I have always thought that Lilliput, which is the name of the tiny country inhabited by wee, tiny people in Jonathon Swift's wonderful satirical novel "Gulliver's Travels" would be a great term for a short golf shot. Or a shotput using flowers.

From the Script Rewrite Department-the line "...lions and tigers and bears, oh my..." from the movie "The Wizard Of Oz" would have been a lot funnier, and a lot closer to the truth of the situation, if it went "...lions and tigers and bears, oh shit...".

From the No Way That Was An Accident Department-did you know that last Monday, as well as being Valentine's Day, was also National Condom Day, and you know that was done on purpose by the National Condom Society, because it was too funny to have been unintentional, and if it was inintentional, it was hysterical.

From the Unconscious Slip Department-and that also last Monday, one of my Facebook friends posted this status: "Happy VD", and decorum would not allow me to post back "...and a Merry Syphilis to you too...".

From the Completely Stupid Ideas Department-the State of Mississippi is considering issuing specialty license plates this year honoring and commemorating Nathan Bedford Forrest, who is generally known for three things; one, he was one of the Confederacy's leading generals in the Civil War, two, he was one of the original founders of the Ku Klux Klan and three, that the eponymous character Forrest Gump was named after him. I'd be curious to know which achievement Mississippi is honoring him for; I'm assuming its for his inadvertent connection to the movie, because if its for his generalship or his involvement in the KKK, something tells me that there will be a WHOLE lot of people in the State of Mississippi who will not be pleased, and that's all I'm going to say about that.

From the LA Celebrity Watch Department-over 150 people got sick at a recent reception for the DOMAIN Fest Global Conference (???) that was held at the Playboy Mansion in the VERY exclusive Holmby Hills section of LA (pronounced LAH). (Holmby Hills kicks the poop outta' Beverly Hills for exclusivity, right up there, and maybe even a little ahead of Bel Air; Malibu is the actor's colony, so to speak, still haute but a bit more bohemian. People in Malibu are beach-goers as well as celebrities; people in Holmby Hills send their chauffeurs to the beach in their place.) Anyway, no one seems to be able to determine what caused all these people to contract what they believe was "legionellosis" at the Mansion (as the media refers to it our here in LA) but I'm thinking it had something to do with seeing the 137 year-old Hugh Hefner drooling all over his new wife, who just graduated from high school last year. I know it sure sickens me every time I see them together. Hef, you ever hear of aging gracefully?

From the Hypocrisy 1, Accountability 0 Department-Miley Cyrus father Billy Ray (whose Medley of His Hit would include the incredibly inane "Achy Breaky Heart"), was quoted in GQ magazine this month as saying he regretted ever having let Miley do the "Hannah Montana" series for the Disney Studios, and further that he also blames Disney for, apparently, all of Miley's recent screw-ups, including the obtaining of various tattoos in conspicuous places on her body, being pictured taking bong hits of Salvia, her pole-dancing act during her 2009 appearance at the Kid's Choice awards and her total inability to stay completely dressed for more than 10 minutes at a time, all of this from a young woman who JUST turned 18 recently (none of which actions Billy Ray, as her father, had any responsibility for whatsoever, I presume) plus the recession that the country is currently experiencing, the war in Afghanistan and the Pittsburgh Steelers loss to the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl XFDLY2KINC, amongst others. "Hannah Montana destroyed our family", he was quoted as saying, proving that, as far as moron-level IQ is concerned, Miley the acorn did not fall far from Billy Ray the tree. They're in for a battle in the Most Stupid Father/Daughter Team category at the People's Choice Awards next year, facing stiff competition from Lindsay Lohan and her genius Pop, whatever his name is. Miley was also quoted in the article as saying how thrilled she is, now that she's 18 and can legally step on her johnson as often as she likes, to move from the Teen Idol into the Stupid Starlets category, joining the aforementioned Lindsay, Paris and Britney, who at least can sing and dance some. (Miley didn't really say that in the article; I made that part up. But the rest is true and, boy, how scary is that.)

From the You Don't Have To Be Very Bright To Be A Justin Bieber Fan-fans of the "teen sensation" Justin Bieber, a young man of dubious talent and what would appear to be some confusion about his gender, are apparently so upset that their idol didn't win the 2011 Grammy for Best New Artist, which in his instance would be a gross misuse of the term "artist", that they have taken to posting nasty and vitriolic comments on the WikiPedia page of the actual winner of the award, a wonderfully gifted young woman by the name of Esperanza Spalding. Ms. Spalding is a very talented vocalist who accompanies herself on the standup bass, which for those of you who are unfamiliar with it, is an incredibly difficult instrument for anyone to master, especially for a woman, because of the size of both the bass and the typical woman's hands. Ms. Spalding, whose instructor was the legendary John Lockwood, has become proficient on the bass to the point where she has been named a professor at the Berklee College of Music, and has been linked musically to such jazz greats as Pat Metheny and Patti Austin. Justin Bieber has done a Pepsi commercial for the Super Bowl, and, I suspect, couldn't find his butt with both hands and a map. Events like this make me despair for the future of our culture.

Well, that about wraps it up for today, kids; tune in tomorrow, same Bat time, same Bat channel, (you have to be a product of the '60s to get that allusion) for another edition of the Pope going on interminably about mostly nothing.

And hey, just for the record, why should Miley and Lindsay and Paris and Britney and Justin have all the fun? Hell, I'm capable of being just as inane as they are. (They just get paid a lot better for it, which, when you consider it from a strictly fiscal point of view, makes you wonder who the dummy is here.)

Love and useless information,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Cats vs. Dogs: And The Winner Is...

The Pope is not a big fan of cats (although I understand the play was excellent).

Several of my staff members here at the All John All The Time World Church are cat-lovers, and I know that they speak well of cats. And much like it's position on guns and expensive coffee machines, the Constitution doesn't say that you CAN'T own a cat, so my feeling is, hey, if you want to have one, knock yourself out.

I've actually owned a cat once upon a time, many years ago, during my first tenure as a college student. I called her Jennifer (all the other cool names were already taken). Since college days for me were a LONG time ago, during the Pleistocene Era actually, I don't remember a lot about Jennifer, except that she was...a cat. I do remember something she did one day that I thought was pretty funny, although I suspect she wouldn't have agreed with me at the time.

It was a warm spring afternoon, and I was taking a bath (actually, the proper way to describe that action is "bathing", because you can't really "take" a bath someplace; I mean, where would you take it? How would you get it there? But "taking a bath" implies a tub, whereas "bathing" could mean you were standing knee-deep in a river somewhere, butt-naked, splashing water up under your armpits, so, okay, I get the "taking" thing). Anyway, being a warm day, I had left the door of the bathroom open (other than the aforementioned river, where else would you take a bath but in the...bathroom?); I was lying there in the tub, relaxing mostly, when Ms. Jennifer, being the possessor of typical cat curiosity, which apparently, from what I've heard, can kill them, walked into the "bathing room" to check out what I was doing. She then did something that surprised the hell out of me; she walked to the tub, put her front paws on the edge and proceeded to jump in. To the tub, which was, obviously, full of myself and water at the time. Why? Have to ask her.

I'm pretty sure her paws were the only things that got wet, because she no more than hit the water when she did an abrupt about-face in midair and tore-ass out of the bathing room and disappeared down the hall; I didn't see her for a few hours after that. (I'm happy to say that her claws did not make contact with any part of my extremely naked self, including unmentionable parts that I won't mention.)

I used to verb "owned" to refer to the relationship that many humans have with cats, and I think that's one of the things that I don't like about cats: despite their reputation as being independent, cats can be "owned". I mean, they do less than nothing in most instances; sure, they'll play with a string and you can get them stoned on catnip, but they're about as useful as two-headed five-iron. Or a two-headed ex-wife, for that matter. But most of the time they just lay around, doing zilch, and I have a number of throw-rugs that do exactly the same thing, and I own them.

And forget teaching them "tricks"; as opposed to any cat that I'm aware of, the Harley Dog, the official canine of the Pope Guy, can sit, stay, lay down (his English usage is poor, though, because that properly should be "lie down"), and fetch a ball. He's also a top-notch watchdog; good luck getting within 300 yards of my apartment without him announcing your presence in that big, 100 pound, "go ahead, make my day" bark of his. And I can put one of his "treats" on the floor in front of him and tell him "NO" and he will not touch it until I say "okay"; yeah, you'll get the big, sad-eyed look the whole time he's sitting there, but he won't touch it. Cats...not so much. And you cannot, cannot own a dog; you can be their caretaker, guardian, roommate, buddy, whatever, but you really can't own a dog. And you know what; I wouldn't want to, because anything you can own doesn't have a lot of self-respect. Now I know most people would say the opposite about dog/cat/human relationships: you can't own a cat, they're too independent, a dog will follow you anywhere, yada-yada-yada. Bullshit. Cats are independent because they're too dumb to know any better; if Harley had better language skills, he could run for governor of CA, and probably win. (Hey, the ninnies in this state elected the Governator, Arnold Schwarzenhootsen, and I figure Harley has him by at least 50 IQ points.)

Besides, what kind of an ungrateful wretch would climb in your lap, let you stroke it, pet it, scratch behind it's ears and then, after all that, bite you, leap off your lap and race off across the room, laughing manically the entire time? Cats are schizophrenic, and apparently not taking their meds as prescribed.

My sister's cat has done that to me, although in my defense, I learn quickly; he's only done it once. Now I just lean down and scratch his head for a moment, and then get my hand back out of range, and I never let him jump up into my lap. The one and only time I let him bite me, I was irritated enough to go home afterwards and write a song about it: I only got the first verse written, but I thought you might want to "hear" it (good luck stopping me now even if you don't).

"Let's Do Mean Things To The Cat With A Fork" (lyrics by The Pope)

(I was going through an early '70s retro-rock thing then, so I sang it to the tune of the Iron Butterfly hit "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida"):

            "If you cross a donkey with a horse, that's a mule,

            And if you combine a spoon and a fork, that's a spork

            Everyone loves gerbils as a rule,

            So let's do mean things to the cat with a fork."

Now don't go calling the ASPCA on me, I'm just kidding; I would never harm an innocent animal (well, there's the gerbil golf thing, but I only did that once), even a cat, although for my money, I don't think they're all that innocent; I think they like being schizo.

And on top of all that, do you really think you can trust an animal that licks it's own butt? (I knew a girl once...well, never mind that now.)

Love and scratching posts,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

One Guy To Another, Nice Job

Who, me?

The subject of today's post is a little, how can I say, ahh, disgusting, so if you're squeamish about bodily functions and gross smells and sounds, you know, all the things that guys love and crack up over, you might want to go back to Facebook or wherever.

For those of you who follow my blog regularly (all several of you), my boon companion, best buddy and official canine of the All John All The Time World Church, of which I am the Popester, is a 13 year-old Golden Retriever and all around good guy, commonly and affectionately known as the Harley Dog (see picture above). Harley has been with me for seven years now, and he's more fun than a couple of midgets, a pogo stick and a pound of Parkay margarine. In the winter, we live together here in LA (pronounced LAH) and in the off-season months we fly off to the Sargasso Sea in the official atomic powered rocket ship of the Pope of the AJATTWC, the Royal Unionship Kidding, or RU Kidding for short, to our summer home on the island of Snacilbuper (pronounced SNACK-ILL-BUPER), which is Republicans backwards, (and which now that I think of it, is pretty much how most Republicans, and most Democrats for that matter, seem to do things these days), where we walk the beach, throw sticks, chase balls, belch and fart a lot and do a lot of other gross guy stuff.

As much fun as the Harley Dog is, and he can make me laugh like very few people I know, he does have his, how can I say, less than finer moments; he doesn't drool very much, but his breath could repulse an iguana, and he has a habit of licking areas on his big, furry self that I am unable to lick on myself, causing me a great deal of envy.

The worst thing about Harley is his occasional bouts of, okay, this is where it starts to get icky, flatulence. Its not often, at least the really bad stuff, but often enough, like say, once a week or so, when, all of a sudden, whoa, and tears start to come to my eyes, and the people downstairs from me start complaining, and sometimes the LAFD shows up, thinking there's a gas main leak somewhere; it gets pretty gritty, I gotta' tell you.

For the life of me I can't figure out what causes it; he eats the same, dry food every day, I NEVER give him table scraps because he already weighs a 100 pounds as it is, so unless gulping the air here in LA is the causative factor, I don't get it.

I rolled over in bed this morning, about 2:00am, a) because, like every night about that time, I had to pee, and b) my ENTIRE apartment was enveloped in this miasma, which was palpable, this ungodly smell, emanating from my dog's nether regions. It literally woke me up from a sound sleep. You'll pardon my being a little gross here, but the aroma was pungent, thick almost, like cheese that's gone bad or that wet towel you left in your gym bag at the bottom of your closet and forgot about until three months later. I mean, it was nasty. And although he doesn't say much, I always get the impression, like most guys after they've wafted a good one, that Harley is kind of smug and proud of himself.

Now, being a typical disgusting male pig person, I fart with some frequency, but I've noticed as I've gotten older that it's mostly just wind, and little aroma. I mean, on a good day I can toot the first eight bars of the "1812 Overture" but the paint stays on the walls and there's no lawsuits involved. Besides, it just the two of us, so who cares. (My Dad, like most Dads I suspect, had his little "fart ritual"; sitting in his chair in the living room, he'd lift up one cheek, let'er rip, and then look at my Mom and go, "Ooops, that slipped", which, of course, disgusted my mother to no end and cracked me up, both of which I'm sure my Dad thought were good reasons to continue doing it. As is so often the case, the acorn did not fall far from the tree.)

But not the Harley Dog, no tooting of classics for him; he is the embodiment of the old joke about being SBD: silent but deadly.

Harley came to live with me when I was well into my '50s, having spent the first six years of his life with my daughter; it's a long story of how he made the sojourn from the flatlands of Illinois to the sun-drenched San Fernando Valley, and I won't bore you with it, (now don't get all sentimental, he didn't run the whole way out here, he came in a cage in the cargo hold of an airplane) but Harley was my first, and only ever, pet. (Mom and Dad didn't know from pets.) So while I was intellectually aware that animals, particularly dogs, emit methane gas, but it's one thing to know about something, and it's another to experience it first hand, much like reading about an elephant in a book and then seeing one of those big bastards up close for the first time; it's just not the same. (Robert Heinlein, the famous science fiction writer, once remarked in one of his books that a mouse was as much of a biological miracle as an elephant, but didn't have near the visual impact.)

I had no idea how bad dog flatulence could be; I just never was exposed to it previously, so the first time Harley let loose, I was surprised, and I hate to say it, but again, being a typical "guy", I was a little impressed. I mean, all that odor from simple dry dog food, hey, one guy to another, that's a great job. I gave Harley a fist bump and we laughed our asses off. Once my eyes stopped tearing up. (I'll never forget the time, about a week after I got him, that he walked over to where I was sitting, looked me in the eye and yarked up everything he'd eaten that day, for no apparent reason, other than to baptize me and his new home, I guess. That was almost seven years ago, and he's never done it again since.)

Okay, enough gross-outs about dog farts; I promise tomorrow's post will deal with some subject that's a little more genteel, although at this point I have no idea what that subject will be. I have to close now; there's a committee of my neighbors at my front door and they want to talk to me about the horrendous odor emanating from my apartment. In the meantime, my partner is lying on the floor, with a smug look on his furry face; who me?

Love and eberts,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.



The Tenets of "Johnism", Part II

Picking up from where I left off yesterday, I will continue with my delineation and examination of the various tenets that comprise Johnism, or the dogma of the All John All The Time World Church, which I'm calling my Sickle, which is short for what the Roman Catholics refer to as a Papal Encyclical, which us Pope Guys use to explain the arbitrary rules to which we subject our followers. Actually, most of my positions, and by extension, those of the my church, are meant to be advisory only, unlike other religions that expect their adherents to actually, you know, follow their rules, live decently and behave themselves. Our attitude here at the AJATTWC is a little different; we believe that you should be good, but if you can't be good, then you should try not to get caught, and if you DO get caught, don't call us to bail you out of jail. (We have no budget for that.)

Once again, in no apparent order, other than as they occur to me:

2nd Amendment Rights-

            The Second Amendment of the Constitution of our great country reads as follows:

            "A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed."

            Okay, for those of you misguided individuals who believe that, just because our Founders wrote in a stilted English language that doesn't translate well to modern day usage, this amendment allows you to arm yourselves as if the Third World War was imminent, sorry, guys, you're reading it wrong. Now, let me make a point right here; at this juncture in our country's legislative history, there's no law that says you CAN'T keep weapons, so knock yourselves out. But don't misconstrue the 2nd; there's nothing in the language of the amendment that says you, as private citizens and non-members of a militia, can "keep and bear arms".

            If I had been the author of this amendment, and wanted to express what the Founders were trying to say, here's how I would have written it:

            "Since there are a bunch of kings and other despots in Europe that might eventually decide to come across the Atlantic and attempt to take our homes, our farms and our businesses away from us and make us all subjects to their nonsense again, which is one of the reasons why we came to this land in the first place, to get away from that kind of shit, and since we don't want to keep a standing army, because strong leaders and armies scare us to death, and besides, we can't afford it anyway, and that the several states need some protection as well from other states coming in and taking whatever they want without being polite and asking nicely, we need to keep a militia, which means you guys need to keep your muskets and powder handy just in case the Brits or some other assholes start something. Since the states are afraid that the federal guys will try to take over, and won't fund the militia, thus leaving the several states with no way to confront insurrection, riots and other shit like that, we'll write this amendment so it says that the federal guys can't take your muskets and your powder from you, ever. But only because you gotta' do the militia thing and be members and come running if we call you up, okay?"

           

            Now, based on MY version, in the modern era, if you're not a member of your local or state militia, and since the institution of militias in this country has pretty much gone the way of the dinosaur, given that we now have full-time police departments at the local, county and state levels, as well as professional standing armed forces, keeping personal weapons under the auspices of the 2nd doesn't work. Sorry.

            So here's the official position of the AJATTWC: hey, you want to keep rifles and shotguns for hunting or whatever, okay. We don't particularly like it, but we don't like a lot of things we live with day in and day out, like famine, disease, poverty and Lindsay Lohan. But if you're thinking about getting a synthesized, gamma ray-generating 56mm harmonizing laser cannon or a Glock 9 with a 250 shot magazine, forget it. With my luck, you'll shoot me with it.

Global Warming-

            Back in 2000, your Pope Guy moved to the beautiful state of California, after nearly fifty (50) years of freezing my butt off in Chicago; great city, lousy winters. No more snow, no more sleet storms, no more scraping an inch of ice off the windshield of my car every morning so I could spend an hour and a half making what was normally a 20 minute drive to work because the snowplows hadn't gotten all the streets cleared yet. I spent fifty years being cold; for my money, the globe can't get warm enough.

Pornography-

            The AJATTWC and your Popemeister have always maintained the position vis-a-vis pornography, or the depiction of slutty people doing disgusting, slutty things to each other, or to sheep or other small animals, such as eberts, with a clarinet, an electric drill and a duffel bag full of pineapples, causing people of the guy persuasion (and, to be politically correct, some female types as well) who view such slutty goings-on to become, you know, "aroused", was sick and disgusting and well, slutty. Further, it is our belief that such slutty behavior should not be condoned, and that if in fact followers of the AJATTWC feel that they must conduct themselves in such a slutty fashion, by the viewing of, for example, slutty porn-sites on the Internet, that said followers should forward the URLs of these slutty websites to me, the Pope Guy, immediately, so that I may review them and determine whether or not said slutty sites fall into the category of "slutty" pornography, and give my approval or disapproval for said viewing.

            You sluts.

The Los Angeles Dodgers And The McCourts-

            Some of you followers of the AJATTWC may not be familiar with Frank and Jamie McCourt, who, depending on whose opinion you believe in the divorce court battle that's currently taking place here in LA (pronounced LAH) between these two ninnies, because Frank caught Jamie doing slutty things with her chauffer (HER, not their chauffer, to give you an idea of the excesses these two twits indulged themselves in, not to mention, just as one example, the two adjacent multi-million dollar homes they owned, and bought with the club's money, in Malibu, using one as a residence and the other as a LAUNDRY FACILITY, and that's a true story, so help me), individually or together own the Los Angeles Dodgers Major League Baseball franchise, much to the detriment of the fans of this venerable club. The only position that the Pope Dude has in reference to these two dumbshits is this: Would you two PLEASE, PLEASE sell the team and go back to Boston or wherever you came from so the loyal fans of this great franchise can have their team back? PLEASE? PRETTY PLEASE WITH SUGAR ON TOP?

TV/Movie/Video Game Violence-

            The AJATTWC's, and the Pope's, opinion on the incessant shooting, killing, murder, violence, exploding car-crashes, knifings, etc. that permeate our television, movies and video games is simple; anyone, anywhere, that thinks this type of "entertainment" doesn't have a detrimental effect on our society, especially on our youth, is a moron, and the Church urges its members to turn this shit off, or don't go to theatres where its showing, and go do something wholesome, like take a walk, or go to a museum, or go spend the day at the beach, or a zoo, or read a good book, or play a round of gerbil golf or whatever.

            This shit is insidious, and if you further think it isn't, you're a bigger moron. And if you think that the perpetrators of the horrors at Columbine, Virginia Tech and Tucson, just as a few examples, weren't, to some extent, influenced by all this garbage, then there's something fundamentally wrong with you that scares the hell out of me.

Short People-

            Amongst the staff of the AJATTWC there is a general agreement, one with which I concur, that the songwriter Randy Newman said it best, in regards to people who are, to be politically correct, "vertically challenged", when he opined in his song "Short People" that, "Short people got no reason, short people got no reason to live..."

            Further, we believe that any adult person ("adult" being defined as having attained the age of 21 years) of the female gender who is less than 5' tall, and any adult person of the male gender who is less than 5'4" tall, should immediately be stripped of their U.S. citizenship, which is nothing at all like a rocketship, and then shipped (pardon the redundancy) off to an island in the Sargasso Sea, where they can live out their tiny, little lives, produce whatever wee, tiny children they care to produce and not bother the rest of us normal, standard height folks. For adult males, the minimum height requirement is increased to 6' 2" if you are currently playing in the National Basketball Association. (Okay, no howls of protest here, I'm just kidding; some of my best friends are midgets.)

And so ends my Sickle, and its about time, wouldn't you agree?

I will periodically update these tenets of Johnism to deal with whatever issues I feel need to be addressed as they arise.

And from now on, I promise not to hold back so much or to be so reticent to express myself.

Love and papal edicts, again,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.