My good friend Ron called me the other evening, as he often does, to chat and catch up on each other's activities since the last time we spoke. "Pope, how're they hanging?" he asked to open the conversation, which of course is a moot question, given that we're both almost 137 and at that age, they hang not well, as he, I suspect, is as painfully aware of as I am. Ron was one of the original members of the All John All The Time World Church, of which, as you may already know, I am the Popemeister, and is one of its staunchest supporters. (I grant him my Papal forgiveness for the question because a) I love him like a brother and b) I occasionally ask him the same kind of inane questions myself.)
Ron recently moved to Decatur, Illinois, after a four-year tour of various other parts of America, forced by circumstances to wander about much like a lost gypsy in search of a campground site with bathroom facilities. Decatur, for you non-geography types, is located in the central part of the state known, on their license plates, as the Land Of Lincoln. (My Dad, often disgusted with the political shenanigans of both Chicago and Illinois politicians over the many years my family lived there, used to refer to the state as the "Land Of Gangsters".)
Decatur is known for two things mainly: for one, it is the home of the Decatur Staleys, the very first franchise in the National Football League; the Staleys later moved to Chicago and became my all-time favorite football team, the Monsters Of The Midway, the Chicago Bears. (Thank you, Papa Halas; I hope things are well for you in football heaven.) The other thing that Decatur is known for is not being the home of the Toledo Mud Hens, which of course, as their name clearly indicates, are from Lower Zimbabwe, home of the ebert. (Okay, those of you who have read any of my posts previously know the ebert joke, so I'll skip it here. Man, you guys are tough.)
At any rate, Ron and I have been friends for over 20 years now, and as I said, we periodically touch base to have one of our typical conversations, which mostly center around two central themes; sports and woman. Not in that order.
I was telling Ron about how I had been using a seven-iron to hit gerbils off my second-floor balcony, and he immediately broke in and said; "A seven-iron?!? Shit, I always use a five off the second floor." (Okay, I'm just teasing; I have never struck an innocent gerbil with ANY kind of golf club, although I smacked the crap out of a couple of hamsters with a pitching wedge recently; boy, those little suckers really fly.)
After we had settled the issue of what club to use on a second-floor gerbil shot, and further had made fun of out favorite subject of derision, the worst franchise in the history of modern sports, the joke of the MLB, the Chicago Cubs, the conversation moved on to our other favorite topic: how long it had been since either of us had a date with a female, preferably of the human persuasion, which is a euphemistic way of saying the last time either of us got laid. (I remember commenting to Ron, some time back, that what bothered me the most about my lack of feminine companionship was that it was actually not bothering me near as much as it used to. I think there's a message in that, but I'm not sure what it is.) Its not that either of us couldn't go out and find ladies of questionable taste (and virtue) to consort with; in my instance, I figure there ought to be a blind woman of grace and refinement that I could, somehow, convince to go out with me, even if I had to pay her. I mean, push gets to a hard place, I could always involve the Harley Dog, the official canine of the Pope of the AJATTWC, in some fashion in my quest to find a temporary mate. Harley is a chick-magnet; women love him. He's big and furry and uber-friendly and any time we're out for a walk and we encounter a female type, its common for them to stop and pet Harley, who doesn't know from strangers, and ooh and ahh over what a big, cuddly cutie he is. Of course, I always tell them to get their rotten, female hands off my dog, which may account for why I spend so much time alone. (Remember the scene in the movie "Beetlejuice" where Winona Ryder's character is in her teenage room, writing a poem that she begins with the line "I am alone" and then crosses it out and starts again with "I am UTTERLY alone". A wonderful depiction of teenage angst, the muse of the disaffected.) But I hate to stoop to such trickery, although I'm sure Harley would go for it, sleaze-bag that he is, preferring to wallow in my aloneness. ("I am UTTERLY alone.")
I've also never considered using one of those on-line dating/matching services, like eHarmony.com or GetLuckyTonight.com either; I know from people who have used them that they have you make a video of yourself, so potential partners can get a first-hand view of your doofusness, and I have no idea how to explain, on camera, about the third nipple I have growing in the middle of my forehead. (I remember the comedian Gallagher commenting on how he couldn't understand why men have nipples; "Why would you have faucets and no pipes?") No, I stay away from the dating services, figuring that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have had an STD, which for the longest time I thought was a '67 Ford Fairlane.
Now the point of this whole monologue, (yes, there really is a point to my ramblings, most of the time) is to explain how I occasionally come up with ideas for things to write about. The idea for this post struck me when I was sitting on the throne this morning (hey, I'm the Pope Guy, I have a throne, although most homes have one of these as well, proving that you don't have to be the leader of a major religion to have modern bathroom equipment), and I got to thinking about this and that, (my excretory functions do not require my concentration) and I remembered that I needed to call my daughter and explain (and probably apologize for) the post I wrote the other day that compared my -ex (her mother) to a picture of a Monitor lizard, and thinking about my -ex got me thinking about women in general and one thing led to another, as it often does in the dark recesses of what purportedly is my brain, and I walked out of the bathroom (after I had finished of course) and wrote myself a note in which pretty much all of the above silliness came out of me, all in one, using the term loosely, creative stroke. (I wrote myself the note so I wouldn't forget my idea and what I wanted to write about. At my age, you write yourself notes to remember things, like pick up flea stuff for the Harley dog, or fix the hinge on the gate downstairs, both of which are sitting on my desk as I'm writing this, or not to forget to use the throne-room, if you get my drift.)
I remember reading somewhere that Babe Ruth used a 36", 42 ounce bat, which for those of you who don't follow baseball, is the equivalent of using a telephone pole as a bat. I mean, in modern terms, that's a huge piece of lumber. And you know what? I'll bet you a dollar to a turtle-soup sandwich that I could REALLY get some distance on a Chihuahua with one of those babies.
Love and driving ranges,
PJTT
copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.
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