Has It Caused Any Train Wrecks Yet?

Note to Mark Cuban, owner of the Dallas Mavericks NBA franchise, his coach, Rick Carlisle, his star player, forward Dirk Nowitzki, the rest of his very capable team members, including Jason Kidd, Jason Terry, Tyson Chandler, Shawn Marion and all the others, to all his staff of coaches, administrative people, and in fact, to all the wonderful folks involved with the Mavericks team there in Dallas:

If you don't want to see a tear in the fabric of the universe, do not allow the Miami Heat to win the NBA Finals, which start tonight in Miami against your team.

There will be fire, pestilence, civic unrest, rioting, looting, cow-tipping, people removing those tags on your mattress and box-spring that says "Do Not Remove This Tag, Felon Boy", chaos of an unimaginable magnitude and just a phalanx (the first time I saw that word in print I thought it meant something dirty) of citizens in this country who will fall to the ground and begin weeping uncontrollably and tearing at their clothes (all female NBA fans are strongly encouraged to engage in this last activity as much as possible) if the Heat wins.

It's just too awful to contemplate.

Due to limitations in space (that's how people refer to the Harley Dog and I anytime we're off on one of our "missionary" trips through the Universe in my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding), I'm not going to rehash all the media hype and nonsense coming out of Miami earlier this season when the Heat were building a roster and signing free-agent players as fast as Pat Riley, the President and Head Dude for the team, could get pens in their greedy huge hands. It was ugly, but so were a lot of my ex-girlfriends, which hasn't anything to do with the Miami Heat, but has a lot to do with why I'm still single at the ripe old age of 143.

So, Dallas, get out there and kick some Miami butt, okay? And don't get all puffed up with self-congratulations either; you weasels eliminated my Lakers in the second round, so I'm not cheering for you because your team suddenly became millionaire philanthropists and this is some outpouring of affection, I want you to win because I can't stand the idea of the Victory Parade taking place in South Florida. You're the proverbial "lesser of two evils".

Just not by much.

But if you think that LeBron James is big and ugly, which he is, take a look at that travesty at the top of the page, which, given the fact that it's one of the most startlingly unpleasant sculptures I've ever had the displeasure to view, I suspect you've already noticed.

That's the new statue of Pope John Paul II, which was recently unveiled in the Termini train terminal in Rome Italy.

No, it's not a statue of Benito Mussolini, the Italian ruler from back during WWII, although a number of residents of the Eternal City have likened it to the former dictator.

According to the article from the Associated Press, a sketch of the statue was seen and approved in advance by the Vatican. "Vatican spokesman, the Rev. Federico Lombardi, confirmed that the sketch 'received a positive opinion by the culture commission' of the Holy See. What happened between sketch stage and the final result, he couldn’t say." Sounds like the members of the "Culture Commission" were hitting the sacrificial wine a little hard that day. Geez.

The sculpture, recently erected to mark the late Pontiff's 91st birthday, which would have been on May 18th, was donated to the city of Rome by the "Silvana Paolini Angelucci Foundation, which is dedicated to humanitarian efforts". The Foundation avoided mentioning the controversy on its website; if it had been my money that paid for that thing, I wouldn't mention it either.

An online survey of Romans on the website of the daily newspaper, Il Messaggero, that asked residents of the city to comment on the statue, was running about 90% "Did Not Like (Sucked Big)" as of last week.

Okay, I'm no connoisseur of fine art; yes, I used to be a member of the Art Institute in Chicago, and I love great paintings and sculpture, and I could have spent days wandering around the Institute's exhibits. But for all that, no, I don't know much about art (or his brother, Mat, the one that lays on the floor all the time), but I know what I like, and boy, is that thing awful.

Not to denigrate another artist's work, but I'd have a hard time signing my name to that abortion. That's taking ugly to a whole new level. (My ex-, Dee Dee Spanxalot, took things to a whole new level on many occasions; unfortunately, it always seemed to be on a downward spiral, rather than upward. All those sultry nights, the satin sheets, the candles and soft music, the Sousaphone and the 55-gallon drum of Lime Jello, boy, those were, ahh, interesting times indeed.)

Since the newspaper Il Messaggero decided to take a poll of what people think of the new piece, I think we Americans should have a similar organ for our opinions; accordingly, I'm launching a new survey, which will be called "Rating Religious Art". In this simple test of "like/dislike/hate/wish they would burn it" artistic point of view, citizens will be asked to compare various pieces of "religious" art; for example, in one set, the survey respondent will be asked to judge the relative qualities of the Michaelangelo's "Pieta", the "Last Supper" by da Vinci, the Sistine Chapel depiction of God touching man, again by Michaelangelo and the...Pope John Paul II sculpture by artist Oliviero Rainald.

I've got the da Vinci and six points.

Tell you what, let's keep it simple. By show of hands, all those of you who think the new statue of Pope John Paul II is as ugly as a duffle-bag full of assholes, puttem' up...one, two, five, seven, twelve, two hundred ten, okay, there's a bunch of you.

Now, all those that like the new statue, also by show of hand...just that one guy, huh? (Must be the artist.)

I'm going to direct my staff to compose a letter to Pope Eggs Benedict, asking that, in the name of good taste and good art everywhere, the new statue of PJPII by taken down, dismantled and melted down into, well, whatever people use bronze for these days. (FYI, the "Bronze Age", the transitional period between the Stone Age and the Iron Age, took place roughly from 3300 B.C. through 1300 B.C. That was even before my time, although not much. I told my friend Ron the other day that one of the things I hate most about getting older is that my age is rapidly catching up to my IQ, which means I'm really getting old, or I'm really dumb; okay, it could be both.) The world already has enough eyesores as it is, with oil spills and strip-mining and over-crowded cities and billboards and Rosie O'Donnell and boy, the list just goes on, doesn't it?

In my letter to my fellow Popeperson, I'll urge that, for all of the above reasons, the new "stat" has to go; I don't care where especially, just make it be gone.

And if Strudel Boy can find a way to make that abomination disappear, maybe we can get him to work on LeBron James next.

Hey, LeBron, here's some perspective for you and all of your egotistical, self-centered, narcissistic fellow athletes; guys, if you couldn't throw, hit, shoot or catch a ball of some sort, many of you would be the biggest, tallest hamburger-flippers ever employed at McDonalds. Not all of you, in fact, not even most, because there's a lot of great people in professional sports, and many, many decent ones as well. But for all of the LeBrons, and the Chad Johnsons and the Terrell Owens and the ARods and the Pete Roses and all the other douche-bag jerks who think that skill on the playing field equates to a feeling of superiority over your fellow humans, yeah, guys, this butt's for you.

I hear Pat Riley is taking bids for a statue of LeBron James to be erected in front of the American Airlines Arena, where the Heat play their home games. Hey, Pat, I know the name of a sculptor that's available. I hear he works cheap, and you know, big guy, you get what you pay for.

Love and Rodin,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Cheering For The Pope

In an effort to utilize all the different types of media available to us these days to bring you the soothing balm of Johnism, I thought that, rather than a written message extolling its virtues, I would use the medium of the Internet video to deliver my hominy for today. Your Pope believes that its important...shit, the Popephone is ringing...

"PJTT...Mike, I'm right in the middle of writing today's post, what's up?...it's what?..."homily", I thought it was "hominy"?...so what's hominy?...you've got the what?...oh, GRITS, I thought you said you were sick...what the hell are grits?...from corn?...have you ever seen a grit?...yeah, me neither...okay, I'll change it...yeah...okay, hey, are we still on for Hooters Friday night?...cool...okay, call me later."

Shit.

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one who used to do Gatorade commercials); he tells me that the word I wanted to use up there in the first paragraph was, ahh, homily, not hominy. I guess hominy is, umm, food.

(Remember the first diner scene in the movie "My Cousin Vinny" when Joe Pesci's eponymous character told Lisa, his girlfriend (played remarkably by Marisa Tomei, who won an Oscar for her performance) that he didn't think he had ever even SEEN a grit before. Thank you, Joe. Oh, and speaking of corn, my good friend Ron was recently diagnosed with diverticulitis; when we were discussing it, we both admitted that neither of us had any idea what diverticulitis was, and assumed it was something you got from scuba diving, which made no sense, because my friend Ron has never, ever "scubaed", at least not in a body of water larger than his bathtub. Anyway, I asked him what treatment modality his doctor was going to use to combat this horrid killer, and he said none. "He told me to stay away from corn and nuts, and other than that, there really isn't much else to be done." I told him that I was glad he wasn't a vegetarian squirrel.)

Anyway, as usual, I digress. (If digression were an art form, I'd be Picasso.)

So for today's uplifting message of the soothing balm of Johnism, I'm going to direct all of you to the website below, and ask that you view the short video there called "The Pope John Cheer", which will give you all the wholesomeness and decency you'll need to sustain you on your daily sojourn through the heathen world around us.

http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/11995168/the-pope-john-cheer

Go in peace, my children, and may the Farce be with you.

Love and grits,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Shame On You, Shame On Me

I've had several of my faithful followers ask me to comment on the events of last weekend; you will recall that the Christian commentator, Harold Camping, predicted that, according to his interpretation of the mathematics in the Bible, the world would end on May 21st.

As of May 22nd, we're still all here. Gee, what a surprise.

Camping now admits that his calculations for the original "doomsday" were incorrect and that, after recomputing the numbers, the new date for the final day of our existence is now October 21st. (Hey, he only missed by five months; predicting the end of the world must be a lot like horseshoes and hand grenades, all you gotta' be is close.)

My position as Pope of the All John All The Time World Church requires that I make some observation about Mr. Camping's predictions; however, I'm inclined not to do so. As I told one of my flock the other day, commenting on Camping and his nonsense is like picking a fight with a third-grader; it's not much of a challenge.

But I'll say this much, and then get on to the rest of my life: a very wise gentleman once remarked to me that if you fooled him once, shame on you. If you fooled him a second time, shame on him.

And while I feel some degree of compassion for the families of the people who were already taken in by this lying piece of camel dung, guess what?

If you buy into his bullshit a second time, shame on you.

And maybe I shouldn't say this, but for my money, if you bought into it the FIRST time, shame on you.

Mr. Camping, do all of us that have some sense a favor: shut up and go away. You're wasting good oxygen that one of the rest of us could be using. No one with an IQ of over room temperature believes your garbage anyway, so spare us, okay?

Dean Acheson, who was the Secretary of State under President Harry Truman, and was a highly intelligent and principled gentleman, once remarked, in reference to the First Amendment's "freedom of speech" clause, that "Freedom of speech is a restraint on government, not an incitement to the citizen."

In other words, Harold, just because you have the right to speak doesn't mean you necessarily should.

I suppose the next thing you'll tell us is that the Cubs will win the Series this year, when anyone with any knowledge of the Bible, err, of the MLB and baseball know the Dodgers are going all the way this year.

(Waits until laughter dies down to continue.)

Yeah, and next week Earth will receive a cryptic yet decipherable message from somewhere in deep outer space, explaining how to build an incredible machine that will allow us to accelerate several astronauts to the Speed of Aroma and deposit them on the shore of a mysterious beach that faces a vast, placid ocean on an unknown planetoid in the Aldoran Nebulae, after they all turn a bright chartreuse pink and grow a left-handed tentacle. And a third eye. No, wait, that was the basic plot of the book (and movie) "Contact", except the part about the turning chartreuse pink and growing a tentacle and a third eye; I made that part up. (Hey, I've had girlfriends whose looks would have been vastly improved by turning chartruese pink and growing a left-handed tentacle and a third eye.) (Several.)

Hey, Harold, when you can accurately predict the stock market and this year's NBA Finals winner (Mavericks), lemme' know, because then you're onto something useful.

Unlike yourself.

Love and Nostradamus,

PJTT

Copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

It Wasn't My Fault

Okay, now I'm not trying to impugn anyone here, but there's an explanation for why Your Pope didn't post anything to his blog yesterday, and since that deprived all of you of my daily message, which of course was chock full of the soothing balm of Johnism, I feel an obligation to explain.

The reason I didn't write a post yesterday? I couldn't.

The weinie-heads at Blogger.com had the website shut down all day and I couldn't get logged on. (Yeah, and see if any of those guys get into Heaven..."I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too...". (Thank you, L. Frank Baum, once again.) Harley gets all worked up during "The Wizard Of Oz"; he thinks Toto was the victim of poor management and could have gone MUCH further in Hollywood with a good agent. He also wants me to carry him around like Dorothy carried her dog. I reminded him he that weighs 100.4 pounds, at least according to the digital scale in his vet's office the last time we were there, and that, as a lap dog, he'd make a fine nuclear physicist. I let him sit on my lap one time, a few years ago; imagine being sat on by a pregnant water buffalo. No, Harley Dog, the only thing you have in common with Toto is an attractive human.)

See, even the Pope Dude has situations where he doesn't have all the control he would like to have, and much like the feeling you have when you can't get the lid off the new mayonnaise jar, it was frustrating.

So I stomped my feet and cried really loud and jumped up and down and threw a tantrum and guess what?

I still couldn't get access to the site, so no post for yesterday.

Shit.

I have some errands to run later, after I read my morning paper, as well as a shitload of rosaries I have to bless, and some appointments with other "brother Wizards" that I have to keep, so I'm just not going to have time to write a post until later, or maybe even tomorrow. Yeah, okay, I heard the gasp of shock go up from the crowd, I know you're upset and disappointed, but have faith, my children, it's only one day.

Hey, hang on, the Popephone's ringing...

"PJTT...hey, Mike, what's going on?...good, that's great...yeah, I'm working on it right now...why?...okay, but tell the committee I said no sainthood unless they can explain those paycheck stubs she had from that "Hannah's House Of Harlots" place in Vegas...I don't want another "situation" like the one we had last year when we had to explain those compromising pics of me and all those little people from after the "Wizard Of Oz" reunion dinner we got invited to...yeah...yeah, I'm explaining it right now, what a bunch of cry-babies, geez, one day without a post and they're coming unglued, for chrissake...yeah, okay, I gotta' go, I gotta' finish this...yeah...hey, lunch at the Beaver's Den later?...cool."

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan, (no, not the one who didn't make his freshman basketball team); he expressed to me upset how he was with the utter and complete failure of the Blogger.com people to do their jobs competently, and how bad he felt, as do I, about not being able to post an essay yesterday.

Okay, if I get going and get all my errands done, MAYBE I can write something later; I'm not making any promises, but I'll try.

Hey, there's a Dodgers game on this afternoon, okay? How about priorities, huh? I'm only one man, admittedly an amazingly good-looking one, but only a man; I can't do everything.

Somebody has to staple the Sunday bulletins later today too, and ol' Harley Dog doesn't have opposable thumbs, so he's no help, and that means that I have to do it. So no post today either, now that I think about it. The hell with all of it, I'm just not doing one today.

Just like those Blogger. com people, I'm taking another day off.

With pay.

Love and workloads,

PJTT

It Sure Wasn't Like This When I Was In School

"...and in closing, allow me to give you the same advise I give all the students and young people, kids much like yourselves, (only not as green and without the second heads), from the All John All The Time World Church Youth Corps, about the future and their role in the world, as they graduate from college and prepare to take their rightful places in society: clean mind, clean body; take your pick."

I'm practicing the commencement speech I've been asked to give at the Humidorianian Military Academy And Currency Exchange, on the planet HumidorPrime, next week. It's quite an honor, considering the Humidorianians have NEVER had an "outlander" address the graduating class of their highly respected and galactically known military academy. (The Humidorianians train space pilots, navigators, astrogators, alligators, communicators, sea urchins and the '78 Reds to be responsible and highly competent members of astronaut teams that are sent out into space, "to boldly go where no man has gone before", (thank you, Gene Roddenberry), to explore, colonize and govern (and introduce WalMarts to) new worlds and civilizations.

I've never been to HumidorPrime before, but as the Pope Guy of the AJATTWC, it's certainly not the first time the Bored Of Elders of the church has sent me to some God-forsaken rathole, err, sorry, some new and exciting place that offers new challenges and experiences for your Pope and Harley Dog, who I usually drag along on these trips to provide company and another, totally unbiased, opinion of local customs and culture. (Harley has WAY more culture than I'll ever have; he's better looking too.) (Oh, by the way, "the Harley Dog" I mentioned above is Harley, my sidekick, roommate and the "official" canine of the AJATTWC, as well as being the back-up navigator onboard my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, which he and I refer to as the "RU Kidding" for short. His picture appears -->. Mine doesn't.)

We'll be taking the RU Kidding obviously, since it isn't likely we can get the Popemobile to exceed the Speed Of Aroma, as the Kidding is capable of doing, and since HumidorPrime is just under 23.6 light years away, or about as far as the Dodgers are from the World Series, you can just bet your '97 Camry with 103,000 on it isn't going to get us there. The Kidding is outfitted with HyperAromaDrive, which is the thingie that allows the ship to travel at speeds well in excess of the threshold of Aroma Speed. (The best way to explain the "Speed Of Aroma" is to liken it to other measurements of time/distance, e.g. the speed of light, which is a visual comparison, or the speed of sound, which is obviously aural in nature, and the speed of aroma, which is an olfactory comparison.)

Zero to sixty measured in nanoseconds; "God Of Wind", eat your heart out.

I'm quite pleased at having been picked for this honor; not only have the Humidorianians never had someone other than a planetary "big-wig" give the commencement speech at the Academy, they've never had a Galactic figure of, and please allow me a moment of unrestrained conceit here, my prominence and notoriety to address the Kadets at their graduation. I am humbled and thrilled by the prospect.

Anyway, you'll have to excuse me; I need to get back to rehearsing my speech so I have it down cold. The technology on HumidorPrime is a little behind ours; they have no TelePrompters, so I to rely on the old memory for this one. Shit, the Popephone is ringing...

"PJTT...hey, Mike, how are the arrangements for the flight to HumidorPrime coming?...great...excellent...hey, make sure the guys in the back get our clubs loaded onboard; I hear Humidor has a bunch of great gerbil golf courses I want to check out...thanks...so, what's up?...yeah...whatta' mean, "there was a little mix-up with the invitation"?...they want WHO?...WHAT!?!...are you kidding?..."isn't that the name of your spaceship?", ha-ha, very funny...how's Harley going to give a commencement speech, HE'S A DOG, FOR CHRISSAKE...fine, that's just great, so what am I supposed to do?...no...no...no, I'm not going.. forget it, I'm not going to be a glorified "dog-walker" for them...no...I don't care, send them a message and square it somehow...no...no...a year's supply of Thin Mints?...(large sigh of resignation here)...all right, I'll do it...yes, yes, I'll go, okay, are you happy now?...I gotta' go...yeah...tell the Bored this sucks, okay, but I'm doin' it...yeah, okay, call me later."

Shit.

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one that owns the Charlotte Bobcats); he tells me that someone in the AJATTWC office read the invitation from the Humidorianians incorrectly, and that it was Harley that they wanted at the Commencement, not me, and not to give a speech, but to just "be there" to add his "presence" to the proceedings. The invite said that they wanted someone of Harley's "high moral fiber" to be in attendance, to act as an example for the newly graduated Midshippersons (they're politically correct on HumidorPrime as well) to emulate.

Geez.

Please allow me to repeat what I said to Mike: "HE'S A DOG, FOR CHRISSAKE!"

Now granted, the Harley Dog is easily the best dog ever, hands down, no argument, settled in advance, Walter Cronkite's "...and that's the way it is...", done deal, the absolutely best dog ever. He's smart, affectionate, silly, funny and a great companion, but he's still a dog, and HE CAN'T TALK, YOU MORONS, HOW THE HELL IS HE GOING TO GIVE A SPEECH, HUH?

Geez.

Oh, that's right, the Humidorianians just want him there to add his "grace, dignity and class". I'll grant you Harley has more g, d and c than most people I know, but...okay, he's got way more than I have, even, but hey, no speech? No applause, no bright lights?

Boy, what a downer. Miley Cyrus won't be this depressed on the day she finds out she has no talent, assuming she ever does.

(Another large sigh of resignation here.) I guess it could be worse; I could be going with my ex-.

I understand from several people I know who are familiar with the Humidorianian Military Academy that it's a pretty straight-laced institution; to quote Dean Wormer (what a great name) from the movie "Animal House", "...no fun of any kind..." is allowed. There's a curfew during the school week, and staff monitors in all the hallways at all times, periodic, unannounced inspections, no alcohol or "drugs" allowed, no pets, and a security deposit is required. Essentially, it's the Alcatraz of institutions of higher learning.

(Segue begins here.)

And the students of the Academy are apparently not as free and fun-loving as their student counterparts in Germany. Or as open about how they intend to pay for their education, either, I suspect.

According to a report from Rueters, datelined Berlin: "One in three university students in the German capital would consider sex work as a means to finance their education, a study from the Berlin Studies Center said Wednesday."

These are German kids? Offspring of Freud and Wagner? Sex-workers? Boy, what's wrong with that picture? I mean, if this were France, or Italy, or Holland or even Lower Zimbabwe (home of the ebert), I could probably understand it, but GERMANY? Naw, no way, no way a bunch of uptight, sauerkraut-eating German kids pay for their schooling doing Johans Unter Den Lindens. (FYI, prostitution is legal in Berlin, however cow-tipping is still prohibited.)

The study by the Center also queried young people in Paris, France, where the percentage of students who said they would consider being a "sex-worker" (things are screwed up somewhere in the world when "sex" has to be considered "work") was somewhat lower (29.2%) than the Berlin figure, and also in Kiev, Russia, where the college attendees who were asked if they would consider prostitution as a way to pay for their education mostly wanted to know if that meant sex with humans or what exactly, before they would answer the survey questions. Upon answering, only 18.5%, or 1 in 1693, of the students in the Russian city who were surveyed said that they would consider being a prostitute as a means to earn money for tuition. (86.3% said they would consider doing it for free vodka.)

The report went on to add this interesting little tidbit of information: "The study found some 4 percent of the 3,200 Berlin students surveyed said they had already done some form of sex work, which includes prostitution, erotic dancing and Internet shows."

You know, these kids could be on to something; I mean, think of the possibilities for the Congresscritters in Washington.

Committee Chairman: "Mr. Representative, you want a new military base built in your state? No problem. Just one question: how do you intend to pay for it?"

Congressperson Weasel: "A tax increase?"

CC: "No, no, legislationboy, the people are already neck deep in taxes, try again."

CW: "How about one of those, whatta' call them, you know, the things we always attach to bills that we think the taxpayers won't notice..."

CC: "You mean an "earmark"?

CW: "Yeah, one of those "landmark" thingies, how 'bout we pay for it with one of those?"

CW: "Mr. Weasel, you're apparently unaware of a new policy that was recently agreed to between the House, Senate and the White House; it's called "You Pay? You Lay", and basically it sets out the guidelines for a new way of paying for the various stupid, useless, tax-revenue wasting projects that Congresspersons, like yourself, are always proposing. In other words, Mr. Representative, if you want it, you're going to have to earn it. The hard way."

In deference to the level of good taste I'm trying to maintain in my posts, (really? since when?), I'll refrain from making the obvious connection that already exists between prostitution and politics. (Too easy.)

I love this: "The main motivation of students to turn to prostitution were the financial incentives, namely the high hourly wages," Eva Blumenschein, one of the study's authors and a 26-year-old student at Berlin's Humboldt University, told Reuters.

Hourly wages? Prostitutes are paid by the hour in Berlin? Boy, leave it to the Germans to get the railroads running on time. Sex by the hour? Oh yeah, that's romantic.

Well, I can see from the sundial on the wall that I should wrap this up; I still have to practice my, shit, I guess I don't have to practice my speech, now that I think about it.

I didn't want to give that speech anyway.

You know, if they're using sex to pay for tuition in Berlin, you have to wonder what they're doing in Harzzel, on the planet Xanthous, where not only is prostitution legal, but it's also an athletic competition.

Hell, they even allow female Xanthousianians with three breasts to charge an extra "handling" fee.

But there's no student discounts. Period.

Love and matriculation (no, that's not something you do with your teeth),

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Falling Back On The "Wizard Of Oz" Defense

You guys remember the scene in the movie "The Wizard Of Oz" (thank you, L. Frank Baum) where Dorothy and the Scarecrow and the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion are trying to convince the guard at the front door of the Wizard's palace to grant them an audience with Oz...

...and he listens sympathetically for a few moments...

...then tells them, rather bluntly, to move on, and come back tomorrow...

...after all the heartache and travail they went through to get there; what an asshole.

Guess what, guys? Your Pope hasn't got a clue what to write about today, and, due to time constraints and general laziness on the part "His Immenseness", I didn't just rerun an old post like I usually do when I'm suffering from "writer's block", which in my case presupposes "writer", so...

"Now go away and come back tomorrow."

And clean up the mess that lion just made. Geez.

Okay, standard fall-back suggestion: check out my short, animated video, "The Pope John Cheer" at:

<http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_hi/a1adfd3c-78a3-11e0-a6c5-003048d6740d_61.mp4>

It's truly wonderful, just like your Pope Guy, and approved and licensed by the All John All The Time World Church Bored Of Elders.

I guess that makes it official or something. Anyway, you can get your daily dose of the "SBOJ" (Soothing Balm Of Johnism) from the video, and then I'm off the hook for the day. (Me and the Harley Dog are heading for the beach; we walk along the Palisades above the Pacific Coast Highway in Santa Monica, and Harley about goes nuts trying to sniff all the places the other dogs in the park have gone "wee". One of my all-time favorites authors, an hysterically funny man named Christopher Moore, says that a dog whizzing on a tree is leaving a "doggie email"; I love that.) Anyway, Harley will drive himself to distraction trying to answer all the messages (and run out of pee long before he does) and I'll commune with Nature (and I promise I will not notice all the half-naked and mostly naked women enjoying the park and the beach) and then later on this afternoon we'll come home, have a bite (Harley and I take turns on each other) and then later on watch the Dodgers embarrass themselves against the Chicago White Sox.

My daughter and son-in-law are BIG White Sox fans; I love them anyway. (They're turning my two grandsons into Sox fans as well, that's the problem with this situation, but hey, it could be worse; they could be Cubs fans.)

Love and beachballs,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Cheering For The Pope

In an effort to utilize all the different types of media available to us these days to bring you the soothing balm of Johnism, I thought that, rather than a written message extolling its virtues, I would use the medium of the Internet video to deliver my hominy for today. Your Pope believes that its important...shit, the Popephone is ringing...

"PJTT...Mike, I'm right in the middle of writing today's post, what's up?...it's what?..."homily", I thought it was "hominy"?...so what's hominy?...you've got the what?...oh, GRITS, I thought you said you were sick...what the hell are grits?...from corn?...have you ever seen a grit?...yeah, me neither...okay, I'll change it...yeah...okay, hey, are we still on for Hooters Friday night?...cool...okay, call me later."

Shit.

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one who used to do Gatorade commercials); he tells me that the word I wanted to use up there in the first paragraph was, ahh, homily, not hominy. I guess hominy is, umm, food.

(Remember the first diner scene in the movie "My Cousin Vinny" when Joe Pesci's eponymous character told Lisa, his girlfriend (played remarkably by Marisa Tomei, who won an Oscar for her performance) that he didn't think he had ever even SEEN a grit before. Thank you, Joe. Oh, and speaking of corn, my good friend Ron was recently diagnosed with diverticulitis; when we were discussing it, we both admitted that neither of us had any idea what diverticulitis was, and assumed it was something you got from scuba diving, which made no sense, because my friend Ron has never, ever "scubaed", at least not in a body of water larger than his bathtub. Anyway, I asked him what treatment modality his doctor was going to use to combat this horrid killer, and he said none. "He told me to stay away from corn and nuts, and other than that, there really isn't much else to be done." I told him that I was glad he wasn't a vegetarian squirrel.)

Anyway, as usual, I digress. (If digression were an art form, I'd be Picasso.)

So for today's uplifting message of the soothing balm of Johnism, I'm going to direct all of you to the website below, and ask that you view the short video there called "The Pope John Cheer", which will give you all the wholesomeness and decency you'll need to sustain you on your daily sojourn through the heathen world around us.

http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/11995168/the-pope-john-cheer

Go in peace, my children, and may the Farce be with you.

Love and grits,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Browsing Through The Pope's Departments

我看見了孟菲斯明亮的光和代將旅館，並且在街燈之下，我遇見了一名南部的佳麗。 她把我带到河，並且那裡她降了她的咒語，和南部的月光，她那么很好唱了歌曲。 如果您將是我的Dixie雞，我將是您的田納西羊羔，並且我們可以一起走在Dixie土地擊倒，下來在Dixie土地。 很好我們做了所有熱點，並且我的金錢流動了像酒，那低落下來南部的威士忌酒然后開始使我的頭腦模糊。 並且我不记得教堂钟或我在房子白色尖桩篱栅和木板走道放下在鎮邊緣的金錢。 但是男孩我记得我們一起度过和方式她會叫我的名字她的疊句和夜的張力。 如果您將是我的Dixie雞，我將是您的田納西羊羔，並且我們可以一起走在Dixie土地擊倒，下來在Dixie土地。 很好它是一年，自從您走開了，那位吉他演奏员可能肯定使用。 她總是喜歡唱歌，她總是得心應手的與歌曲。 然后在代將旅館的大廳的一夜，我偶然發生遇見說的侍酒者他很好认识她。 並且，因為他遞了我一份飲料，他開始哼唱著歌曲，並且那裡所有男孩在酒吧開始唱歌。 如果您將是我的Dixie雞，我將是您的田納西羊羔，並且我們可以一起走在Dixie土地擊倒，下來在Dixie土地。

As a public service to all you loyal followers of the Pope Guy of the All John All The Time World Church (me), I thought I would provide you with an English to Traditional Chinese translation of the lyrics to the song "Dixie Chicken" by Lowell George of Little Feat. ("...if you'll be my Dixie chicken, I'll be your Tennessee lamb...". Great song. And they got it all translated except the word "Dixie" (see above). By the way, this one's for you, Susie.)

I recently spent a great deal of time (14 minutes) producing and directing a short animated video called "The Pope John Cheer" (http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_hi/a1adfd3c-78a3-11e0-a6c5-003048d6740d_61.mp4) and as is often the case when I become preoccupied with a project of that magnitude, some of the other details get overlooked.

So now that the film is "in the can" (that's Hollywoodese for "in the shitt", ahh, sorry, "completed and ready for distribution"), I finally had a moment to meet with my various department heads and get their reports on the status of "stuff" in the world, to wit:

*From the FAQ: How Do I Access Galactic Birth Records? Department*

            President Barrack Obama apparently decided that enough is enough and sent his personal lawyer to Hawaii recently to arrange to have the "long form" of his birth certificate released to the media to quell growing speculation, not surprisingly, predominately from Republicans and other far-right goofballs, that he had not been born on American soil and was therefore Constitutionally unqualified to hold the office of POTUS. In the meantime, while these "birther" geniuses are out in the yard, baying at the moon, Mr. Obama is dealing with other equally minor issues like, oh, I don't know, maybe the mission to capture/kill Osama Bin Laden, or the deficit battle in Congress or making sure that all the Southern states that suffered the recent spate of tornado-caused damage have Federal assistance, Quadaffi, the MidEast, Iran, or maybe one of those other pesky, unimportant details by which the President is so often inconvenienced. 

            And you know what? If the "birthers" could find a way to access galactic and intergalactic birth records, they'd claim Obama was born on the planet Xanthous, the son of Febrlkl Juttedh and Kkenthr Sprtoth, in less time than it takes to "Beam me up, Scotty", believe me.

            Birth Day Of Child: Star Date 5693.851.

*From the You Guys Do Not Think Of Things The Way I Do Department*

            I was watching a recent Dodgers/Braves game, broadcast from Turner Field in Atlanta, and several times during the game I noticed a particular ad on the "electronic billboard" behind home plate. (You've seen these "billboards" if you've seen a baseball game on TV; they're right behind the batter as he stands in the batter's box, and the ad "message" changes frequently, to different sponsors. Unless you close your eyes and merely listen to the broadcast (I think that's called radio), you cannot avoid seeing these ads.)

            The advertisement that caught my attention among so many others was for a sports-ticket agency called StubHub; perhaps you've heard of them. (Perhaps you don't give a shit.) The point here is that, as I sat there, trying to watch the interaction of the pitcher/batter/catcher/umpire, my gaze kept returning to the "StubHub" sign behind the action, and after several glances back and forth between the billboard and the game, I came to realize that "StubHub" backwards is BuhButs, and I thought that was pretty funny.

            Not near as funny as the way the Dodgers were playing that day, but still humorous.

*From the Maybe It Was Self-Defense Department*

            Although the Associated Press report from Charleston WV (that's VW backwards) didn't say as much, self-defense would seem to be the only slightly plausible explanation for the actions of Charleston resident Mark L. Thompson, who was charged by the local sheriff's department recently with felony cruelty to an animal. Mr. Thompson was found:

            a) in the bedroom of his home;

            b) dressed in a bra and panties (there was no mention in the report if the underwear was his or someone else's);

            c) standing over the bloody, lifeless body of his neighbor's pygmy goat;

            d) whose name was Bailey (so help me, that's the name of the goat, not the neighbor);

e) that had died from a stab wound (also goat, not neighbor);

            f) holding a bloody knife in his hand;

            g) with a PORNOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE LYING OPEN ON THE FLOOR NEXT TO THE DEAD GOAT;

h) and a shit-eatin' grin on his face. (Okay, I made that one up.)

According to the police report, the neighbor who owned the goat, Lisa Powers, was alerted to what was happening by another neighbor, and approached and entered Thompson's house with two friends, looking for the goat. (The article didn't mention just exactly how the alerting neighbor knew what Shepard Boy was doing inside the house, inside his bedroom, and for the sake of whatever little decorum I'm still maintaining, I won't speculate.) They didn't immediately find either Thompson or the goat, but heard sounds coming from behind a closed bedroom door. They knocked on the door and, quote, "...from inside Thompson's closed bedroom, 'he told them, 'Don't come in, I'm naked,' Powers told police. 'But they opened the door and he was standing there with his pants down. He had on women's clothing and the goat was dead and there was blood everywhere. It was just a scene.'"

The report went on to add this comment from the arresting officer, who wrote:  "Thompson indicated he had been high and 'wasn't in his right mind' at the time of the incident."

If it wasn't self-defense, it had to be a religious ceremony.

*From the Hey, It's A Recession Thing, Okay? Department*

            I commented in one of my posts recently, and I don't remember which one and I'm too lazy to look it up, so take my word for it, okay?, that I had noticed in one of their ads in the L.A. Times that The 99 Cent Store now has a bridal registry, which I found to be mildly ironic and pretty funny.

            Quote The 99 Cent Store ad in today's Times: "Ask us about our Layaway Plan!" in that breathless, airhead-sounding way of cheesy advertising everywhere.

            Layaway? It's a 99 Cent Store, everything is 99 cents, right? Layaway?

            Being so broke that you have to put items on layaway at The 99 Cent Store would seem to be the embodiment of the phrase "if it took a nickel to shit I'd have to throw up".

            Whew.

*From the Do We REALLY Need A Word For That? Department*

            I was looking up a word in my Webster's New World Dictionary Of The American Language (not to confuse the "American language" with English, and yes, I do use an old-fashioned, PRINTED BOOK THING kind of dictionary, unlike people in today's high-tech environment, who, to determine the definition or usage of a particular word, snap open their iPhone or ThinkPad or BlackBerry, scroll through 8,453 apps to find the "Dictionary" icon, touch the icon and then wait for the Internet to upload, type in "flabbenshortzer" in the Search box, wait for the answer, and then realize that they don't have a pen to write down the answer on the piece of paper that they also don't have, but that's okay, they can save the link...geez) and I came upon a word (not the one I was looking up) that started me to thinking as to whether or not we actually need all these words we have.

            Anyway, the word I stumbled onto was on page 508 of the WNWDOTAL; the word?

            ~Excrementitious. (eks' kre men tish' aes), adj., of, or having the nature of, excrement; excremental.~

            Shit, I believe that we just have too many words, and I think we ought to flush some of them down the crapper, you know, just take a whole load of extra, unnecessary words and dump them.

            On page 834, I saw, ahh, never mind.

*From the And These People Are Our Allies? Department*

            According to an article in the Sunday, May 15th, edition of the Los Angeles Times, which was authored by Molly Hennessey-Fiske, reporting from Kabul, Afghanistan, Afghani mental health professionals are struggling to bring new approaches to the treatment of mentally ill patients in that war-torn country, and Hennessey-Fiske chronicles in the article some of the difficulties authorities have encountered while attempting to upgrade the country's treatment facilities.

            That's all just peachy, but what caught my eye was this paragraph; ready?

            "Experts estimate that 60% of the Afghan populace suffers from mild to severe mental illness."

            Replay, anyone?

            "Experts estimate that 60% of the Afghan populace suffers from mild to severe mental illness."

            60% of the population of Afghanistan can be characterized as having a "mild to severe" case of goofy-toots? Oh good, and they're our allies.

            Of course, they probably look at us and think, oh yeah, we're crazy, but you silly assholes elected George W. Bush President. TWICE. And we're crazy?

            Sure.

*From the Heroes Are Made, Not Drawn Department*

            I am ashamed to admit this, but after living in LA (pronounced LAH) for over ten years now, I just learned the other day that LA is the proud owner of a really, totally awesome statue of two of my favoritest childhood heroes...

            ...Rocky the Flying Squirrel and Bullwinkle J. Moose.

            And I didn't know, and I'm really ashamed, and embarrassed that I didn't know.

            The statue is actually owned by the daughter of the original owner, and the story of that, and how the statue came to be made and displayed at the Hollywood location where it has stood since 1961 and lots of really interesting stuff about the guys who created R & B is a REALLY long one that I won't repeat here because it's almost lunch time and I'm hungry. So here's the link to the article:

            http://articles.latimes.com/2011/may/15/local/la-me-then-20110515

            Go look, read, enjoy already. (I sound like a Jewish mother, and I'm not even Jewish, or a mother.)

So there you have it, fans of the Pope and his band of merry men, all the news that was fit to print, and some that wasn't. I'll let you decide the difference.

While you work on that, I'm going to work on getting the image of Shepard Boy in his best Victoria's Secret undies, performing some kind of weird sexual voodoo shit on that poor little goat in the Bedroom with the Knife. (I used to love playing "Clue" when I was a kid; now I'm an adult, using the term loosely, and I don't have one.)

Hey, that reminds me, have you guys seen the new Britney Spears vid yet? (One of the assistant directors on the video "shoot" asked Her Britness if she saw the henway. Brit says, henway, what's a henway? and the AD says, oh, about 4 pounds.)

Love and 1st Floor, Men's and Ladies, 2nd Floor, Furniture, 3rd Floor...(departments, get it? okay, it was a little esoteric),

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

God Of Wind

Nudh nuh nugh nuh nuh. Hudnd nugh nuh nugh.

Shit.

Hey, it's hard to talk when your tongue's hard. (God, that was crude.)

(To which God replied, "Yes, Pope, that was extremely crude, you douche-bag.")

Sorry. That, that is an amazing-looking automobile, but we'll get to that in a moment.

Now that I can talk again, hi-ho and do the hustle, I am hereby announcing that the Harley Dog and myself, your favorite Pope Guy, are going on strike. That's right, music lovers, we're striking as a protest against the cruel and despicable manner that has characterized the way the Bored Of Elders of the All John All The Time World Church has treated your Popeamundo and HD. Especially me.

(For you newcomers to the soothing balm of Johnism, "the Harley Dog" that I referred to above is Harley, the "official" canine of the AJATTWC, as well as my backup navigator when we're onboard my "official" atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding (RU Kidding for short), sidekick and roommate. That's a lotta' hats for one dog, but he's an exceptional dog. He's not as cute as he thinks he is, either. There's a picture of him to the right...no, doofuses, your other right.)

I am steadfast in my resolve, I am committed to my beliefs and I am deeply wounded. No, I mean it, this is insufferable, it is intolerable, it's like the stench that the Lakers left over the entire city of Los Angeles with their performance in the second round of the playoffs against the Dallas Mavericks this year, it's...not good.

If you go ALL the way back to 1/26 of this year, and check out the essay that I posted that day, I was talking about how much I really needed a "Popemobile", you know, a slick, pimped-out ride that I could call my own. (Do the "hip" people still say "pimped" or did I just embarrass myself?) Okay, I admit, I have expensive tastes, but, hey, I'm the Pope Dude, I should be entitled, all right?

Anyway, that's where it started. Yes, I have, at various times, asked for a Porsche, a Ferrari, a Jaguar and a Schwinn World bicycle, and I understand those are very expensive vehicles, but the position of Pope is one of image, and I thought a these various autos/bicycle represented my image favorably.

The Bored Of Elders, however, did not see it that way.

After the Bored turned down as "too extravagant" all of the above "suggestions", I decided that I would make one last attempt to obtain for myself, and by so doing, enhance the image of Your Pope, a really hot ride.

So, being a typical person of our Internet age, I jumped on Google and went looking.

(A brief pause to build a moment of solemnity...)

That is a Pagani Huayra (pronounced "Oh. My. God.").

Nugh, nuh nuh, hegh uh...sorry.

The powerplant is a Mercedes Benz V12 TwinTurbo 6.0 liter designed by AMG for MB engine that develops 700 HP (SEVEN HUNDRED HORSEPOWER) that pushes the Huayra to a top end of somewhere around the Speed Of Aroma (230 MPH).

Thank you, and good night.

I stumbled onto a short video of this beast; it appears to be of a couple of tech guys rolling out a prototype vehicle. You have to check this out; this is an amazing car. From the rear it looks like a spaceship.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SqWKWJ7jiCw

"Huayra" is the name of the ancient Andean God Of Holy Horsepower, Batman, They Want $1.4 Mil For That Son-Of-A-Bitch. Excuse me, God Of Wind, like as in how hard I broke same when I saw the price tag on that buggy. Those Pagani folks, they aren't bashful, I'll give them that.

What a beautiful example of the automotive art; granted that the perception of automobile building as an art requires one to get past thinking only of the functionality of the automobile, and admire certain autos as strictly objects d'art, rather than as examples of a useful, but mundane and everyday, conveyance. But once past, it is hard to imagine a more incredible exemplar of the art than this.

In other words, that is one maternal fornicator of a car, bro.

So I told the Bored, hey, I'll give up the Clippers season's tickets (oh yeah, that was hard, like giving up ringside seats to a live medical school presentation of the short piece, "The Proper Way To Perform A Colonoscopy"), and the Walmart discount card, and the $3.75 meal per diem AND the annual subscription to "DDD Beauties" (and go away and stop bothering them about a car), if they could see their way clear to allow me to purchase a...

...(a flourish of saxo, err, trumpets here please...)

...Pagani Huayra.

Just one.

And they said no. Again.

Assholes.

So Harley and I are on strike, and we aren't returning until our demands (see "***Demands***" below) are met. Or at least waved hello at.

***Demands***

            #1- a Pagani Huayra.

            #2- a lifetime subscription to "DDD Beauties"

            #3- and Harley wants a new chew toy, preferably one that squeaks

That's it.

So step up, B Of E, or me and the hound, we're outta' here, hasta la vista, bubala, which ain't Spanish for "Baby, You Can Drive My Car", one of my all time favorite Beatle tunes, okay? We're geography, dudes.

Hang on, the Popephone is ringing; it's probably the Bored calling, begging us to return.

"PJTT...hey, Mike, any news?...oh, they did?...no, I'm not surprised, I expected them to come crawling soon...they said what?......HOW long?...shit...shit...okay, we can go looking tomorrow...hey, what about the subscription...tell them I said that's cold...yeah...yeah...okay, gotta' go."

Shit.

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one who always stuck his tongue out when he drove to the hoop); he tells me he checked with the Pagani people: they only make 20 Huayras a year, and they're booked up through the next millennium. And he checked with the B Of E, and they said that, in light of my exemplary performance as Pope and my extensive contributions to the field of the humanities, or as the feminists would say, the hupersonities, they will allocate funds to allow me to buy a brand new...

...Ford Focus.

Stripped down version only, though, no CD player or GPS.

My, how the fallen have mightied.

At least they approved my subscription to "DDD Beauties"; their comment to Mike, to pass along to me, was that they understood how a man of my, delicately put, limited opportunities with the opposite sex might need some form of "alternative release", and they didn't want to seem "insensitive" by denying my request.

Assholes.

(Large sigh of resignation here.)

Love and Pintos,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Never On Sunday

No one is sure what motivated the Creator to suddenly get up one morning and decide, hey, I think I'll start creating the universe today, it's Monday, for once I'm all caught up, and darn it, I'd like to have my own universe, and since I'm the Creator, hey, I'm all over this one.

According to reports from various unreliable sources, such as all those Old Testament prophet guys, TC worked His butt off for the next six days, and after all that work, making planets, and animals, and mountains, and rivers, and platypuseses, and trees, and stars, and moons, and quasars, and quarks, and Miley, and just a whole lot of other stuff, after all that, TC decided that he needed a day off.

"I need a day off", He said to Himself.

(He hadn't gotten around to breathing life into the angels yet, that being the last thing on His list to do, so He was still talking to Himself at that point.)

Speculation amongst other spiritual Big Dudes, like myself, the Pope of the All John All The Time World Church, is that TC was lonely, and wanted some companionship. Me, personally, I would have told Him to create canines, find a likely-looking Golden Retriever to adopt and go from there. They're great companions, (ask the Harley Dog) and not NEAR as much work as women. He could have done the same thing for humans as well, if he would have known then what He knows now.

But NOOOooo, TC has to do the whole Adam and Eve thing, and now look where we are. Geez. (Oh, and by the way, "the Harley Dog" I referred to above is the "official" canine of the AJATTWC, my sidekick, roommate and best buddy, Harley.)

Anyway, the Creator decides He's had enough for one week, and thought that if he had forgotten to create something He needed for His universe, He could take care of it next week.

So on the Sunday of His "Creation Week", TC took the day off.

"You know, since I'm not working today; I think I'll hang out, do some burgers on the grill and watch the Dodgers embarrass themselves against the DBacks." He went over to His workbench, breathed life into the angels He had stored there (hey, He didn't want to watch the game by Himself), and asked the first batch of new angels, "How's that sound?", to which, of course, the newly-minted Seraphim and Cherubim had no answer, because they had just been created, and didn't know from baseball. Or burgers, for that matter.

So the Creator rested on what came to be called the Sabbath, watched the Dodgers annihilate the DBacks, surprisingly, and got back to his job of the creation and ruling of His new universe on Monday.

And since the Creator took one day off each week, with pay, your Pope Dude is going to do the same thing.

I'm off today and I'm back tomorrow. (Actually, I'm not off any more today than I usually am, I'm just not working today.) Oh, and the Bored of Elders of the AJATTWC have agreed to pay me for today as well. (Hot damn, another $3.69.)

Try to muddle along as well as you can, oh ye faithful followers of the Pope, without the soothing balm of Johnism, for just this one day. Come on, you can do it.

Hey, how many of you are off on Sundays, huh? Yeah.

Love and triple time,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Cheering For The Pope

In an effort to utilize all the different types of media available to us these days to bring you the soothing balm of Johnism, I thought that, rather than a written message extolling its virtues, I would use the medium of the Internet video to deliver my hominy for today. Your Pope believes that its important...shit, the Popephone is ringing...

"PJTT...Mike, I'm right in the middle of writing today's post, what's up?...it's what?..."homily", I thought it was "hominy"?...so what's hominy?...you've got the what?...oh, GRITS, I thought you said you were sick...what the hell are grits?...from corn?...have you ever seen a grit?...yeah, me neither...okay, I'll change it...yeah...okay, hey, are we still on for Hooters Friday night?...cool...okay, call me later."

Shit.

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one who used to do Gatorade commercials); he tells me that the word I wanted to use up there in the first paragraph was, ahh, homily, not hominy. I guess hominy is, umm, food.

(Remember the first diner scene in the movie "My Cousin Vinny" when Joe Pesci's eponymous character told Lisa, his girlfriend (played remarkably by Marisa Tomei, who won an Oscar for her performance) that he didn't think he had ever even SEEN a grit before. Thank you, Joe. Oh, and speaking of corn, my good friend Ron was recently diagnosed with diverticulitis; when we were discussing it, we both admitted that neither of us had any idea what diverticulitis was, and assumed it was something you got from scuba diving, which made no sense, because my friend Ron has never, ever "scubaed", at least not in a body of water larger than his bathtub. Anyway, I asked him what treatment modality his doctor was going to use to combat this horrid killer, and he said none. "He told me to stay away from corn and nuts, and other than that, there really isn't much else to be done." I told him that I was glad he wasn't a vegetarian squirrel.)

Anyway, as usual, I digress. (If digression were an art form, I'd be Picasso.)

So for today's uplifting message of the soothing balm of Johnism, I'm going to direct all of you to the website below, and ask that you view the short video there called "The Pope John Cheer", which will give you all the wholesomeness and decency you'll need to sustain you on your daily sojourn through the heathen world around us.

http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/11995168/the-pope-john-cheer

Go in peace, my children, and may the Farce be with you.

Love and grits,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Rhymes With Niagra

"We interrupt our regular scheduled program to bring you this special bulletin..."

Your Pope is stumped.

And pray tell, oh learned and wise Pope Guy, is that painful?

Only when I try to think.

(Did you guys know that the word "reformer" backwards is "remrofer"? I would imagine that would be pronounced REM-RO-PHER, as in rhymes with "gopher", which is a part of the ebert family. Not Roger's, the family of the small, furry two-headed mammal from Lower Zimbabwe with an ginormous sex organ, although it's not Lower Zimbabwe with the super-johnson, come on, a country can't have a sex organ of any size, well, unless you think of Bill Clinton as the human embodiment of a penis, then maybe, but no, it's the ebert that has a ginormous sex organ, and it's the ebert family to which the common, ordinary gopher is related, on the mother's side of the family I believe. You're free to come up with whatever pronunciation you like; mine was just a suggestion. I'm easy, although I wouldn't want that to get around.)

I am REALLY glad I got that out of my system.

No, children, your Pope and Fearless Leader, (please see my post from 4/3, "Rocky And Bullwinkle Meet H. G. Wells" for an explanation of the term "Fearless Leader"), is completely at a loss to explain quantum physics; never studied it, don't understand it and I'm pretty sure most of the topics covered under "Quantum Physics" ought to be labeled "Magic". Not Johnson, but as in "alakazam".

The other thing I am completely stumped about is this proliferation (boy, there's a meaty word if I ever heard one) of commercials on TV and in the various media regarding ED, and I'm glad there's an acronym that I can use so I don't have to type the actual words. (Eeewhewwwww.)

(whispering) Okay, erectile dysfunction. (normal voice) You happy now?

Now I don't watch "network" television per se, like "Desperate Housewives" or "24" or "The Evening News" or the 298 "reality" shows that currently clog the airwaves. No, I'm a sports and an occasional movie TV person, and I don't watch commercials either. (Game goes to break, mute sound, open book, read until game comes back on, mark place, turn off mute. Works like a champ, and I can rub my belly and pat my head at the same time as well.) But I do "see" (just don't hear) all the ads for Viagra, Cialis and all the no-name phony nostrums that just about anybody with an IQ over a head of lettuce knows are phony, but hope springs eternal in the human breast so they keep on buying them, and it just seems a bit too much.

First off, when did it become okay to air our personal sexual laundry in public? I am by NO means a prude (ask my herd of sheep) but come on, guys, do I have to hear with such depressing frequency how I can, at the ripe old age of 568, obtain and maintain a woody the size of a sequoia if I'll just drop $80 Gazillion (in three easy payments of $26.6666667 Gazillion each) for the wonderful products that are being displayed on my television screen. And by the implication of these ads, that the majority of the males in this country over the age of 50 apparently couldn't get a boner if someone pointed a Glock 9 at their heads. (Of course, any guy that can get it up under those circumstances is maybe just a little screwed up in La Cabeza, which is Lower Zimbawean for "crazier than a shithouse rat".) 

What a bunch of tumescent, wussy boys the middle-aged men in America have become; if the sheer number of these ads is any indication, no one in the AARP has seen a hard-on since Woodstock.

Second, what's even worse to me is the way they depict "seniors", and "sex"; I love the one where the "older couple" (probably early to mid-50's), are painting the kitchen and at one point, he, backing up to look at something on the wall he's working on, gently nudges into her, and she, suddenly overwhelmed with menopausal passion, turns and gives big boy the ol' evil eye, and begins rubbing up against him in what is either a sexy, salacious attempt to seduce him, or a clumsy try at wiping the paint off his shirt with her stomach. He immediately begins drooling, because let's face it, he hasn't gotten it up, or any, in a coon's age, which is about 568, as I recall, and his interest is, shall we say, piqued?

Fortunately, the commercial fades to another scene before acres of flabby, stretch-marked, middle-aged skin could be exposed, as he and she begin groping each other in a mildly disgusting parody of teenage passion and desire.

Gettin' it on at the old folks home, yeehaw.

(There was a picture on the 'Net the other day of Paul McCartney standing alongside his just announced fiance, a very pretty woman who's name I don't remember; I do remember that the article said she was 51 years of age, which is a lot closer to Sir Paul's age (68) than the last one, who was a senior in high school as I recall. The other thing I WAY too vividly remember about the picture was suddenly realizing, after some closer scrutiny, that Sir Paul, that's right, Paul McCartney, bass-player and general cutie-pie of the Beatles, half of Lennon-McCartney...was wearing a rug. And as the image flashed, unwanted and unsolicited, into my head of a BALD Paul McCartney, the world tilted slightly on its axis for a brief moment, and I fainted.)

(Eeewhewwwww.)

But what's worst about these ads is the way they depict middle-agers who have been momentarily seized by passion, like Mrs. Painter above; there's one where some slightly graying guy, I assume to look "friskier" than his years, slides down a banister whilst chasing his lady fair around the house. He has a gleam in his eye and evil in his heart (or at least his pants, and the implication from the maker of whatever product the ad was hawking was that their product could put a tiger in your tank, a car in every garage, a chicken in every pot and a stallion in your Dockers), and if he can just get his hands on Mrs. C'mere, Big Boy, it's full blast and top down, balls to the wall, you'll pardon the expression. Geez, whatever happened to good taste and decorum? (Yeah, right, we're talking TV, current media and popular culture; good luck with the decorum thing.)

But I figured, hey, there's 827 grazillion Boomers in the country these days, with more coming into middle/older age all the time, assuming they're not dying off in mass quantities, something I think I would have heard about by now, so why shouldn't the All John All The Time World Church and the Pope Dude get up on the bandwagon as well, so I decided to create and market my own brand of "picker-upper" or better yet, "pecker picker-upper". (I made that one up all by myself; aren't you proud?)

Tentatively, here's what I'm thinking of calling it:

*Rip-A-Dick*

*Rip-A-Dick*

Flows right off the tongue, wouldn't you say?

And the advertising will drastically change the image of the sex-crazed but limp-in-the-trousers image that so permeates current ads on similar products these days. Our ads will show real, manly men with johnsons the size of table legs, only using *Rip-A-Dick* to enhance that with which nature has already blessed them. Large, strong and mostly smelly older guys, with slabs for arms and beach balls for stomachs, will lie about, watching TV in their undershirts and belching, showing interest in "making whoopee with the ol' lady" only every blue moon, or about as often as politicians tell the truth, but boy, when it's time, look out mama, I'm going in, there's no doubt that these tough, manly dudes will be able to rise to the occasion. With just a little help, a small boost, from the older guy's PED...

*Rip-A-Dick*

*Rip-A-Dick*

(FYI, the term "PED" that I used above (see above) means Performance Enhancing Drug in "sportsese", you know, like the PEDs that Barry Bonds never, ever used, even though, in his early 30's, he gained 489 pounds of muscle, acne like a chocolate-addicted teenager, pupils the size of BBs and, according to his ex-girlfriend's testimony at his perjury trial, a bad case of shriveling testicles and "limp-in-the-trousers", all of which are symptoms of psoriasis. If what the ex- said was true, Harry Homerun was a prime candidate for...

*Rip-A-Dick*

*Rip-A-Dick*

(Popephone rings)

"PJTT...hey, Mike, how are you?...sorry, I had to turn down the TV, what was that?...oh, Harley's watching a movie...his favorite, "Lady And The Tramp"...what?...why not?...come on, Mike, it's nothing...you're kidding...no...no, it's not "tacky", it's funny...I don't care, I'm posting it...THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH SAYING RIP-A-DICK, IT'S A JOKE, FOR CRISSAKE...no, I'm not...FOUR tickets to the Dodgers/Giants game and a parking pass?...okay, I'll change it (large sigh of resignation here)...yeah, okay...yeah, call me later, and lemme' know what the line is on tonight's Celtics/Heat game...yeah, okay, gotta' go."

Shit.

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, that's the OTHER MJ); he tells me that the Bored of Elders of the AJATTWC says I can't talk about, well, you know, that stuff I was talking about earlier, like the pee-pees and nays-nays stuff. I'm told I must "remember the image of the AJATTWC".

*Rip-A-Dick*

*Rip-A-Dick*

*Rip-A-Dick*

*Rip-A-Dick*

*Rip-A-Dick*

Who's childish?

Hey, Barry, the Harley Dog and I are headed over to the drugstore, do you need anything while we're there? I hear they have a WHOLE section of products for "older" guys like you who have certain, well, I can't just blurt it out, but, you know, certain problems with their "manhood", shall we say? I got a buddy tells me that...

*Rip-A-Dick*

...stuff works pretty good, can I get you a couple dozen cases?

Love and testosterone (or a lack thereof),

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

The NO BULLetin

(It's "Rerun Day" here at the blog of the Pope Guy of the All John All The Time World Church; didn't have a topic for today and decided to give all my wonderful and terribly good-looking followers another crack at the essay I originally posted on 4/11, below. Enjoy.)

 

Okay, race fans, its...Dah..Dah..Dah..DAH..."Announcements" time again; that's right, all you loyal followers of yours truly, the Pope Guy, the All John All The Time World Church must occasionally make its followers, all several of them, aware of its activities, just like any other church; that's why we have announcements. (And you thought we had Announcements just so the Church could sell ad space, didn't you? Cynics.)

Anyway, in no particular order:

*Woman's Club To Host Candidate*

            The President of the Woman's Club of the AJATTWC, Sister May Flowers, would like to invite all the ladies in the Church to plan to come hear potential Presidential candidate Sarah Plain And Loud, give an address on "Child Rearing In A Democratic, Liberal, Slutty World" next Tuesday evening, 4/4/4/4, at 36:15ppm, or Star Date 7563.22, in the Church Meeting Hall. Ms. Plain And Loud will share stories of her experiences as a "mama grizzly" and talk about how the repulsive, sickening lack of morals and values of the sleazy, disgusting liberal Democrats in this country pose a threat to the well-being and proper, Christian upbringing of our children. She will further tell of her battles with her own kids over having proper attitudes, the proper manner of dress and actions and living a decent, moral and most importantly, chaste life, and how she failed so miserably with her own daughter, Bristol.

Refreshments will be served afterwards, and Sister May asked that all you ladies who plan to attend contact her about bringing a covered dish (preferably with something in it to eat).

FYI, Ms. Plain And Loud waived her usual $75,000 speaking fee for this appearance, but asks that donations be made to the AJATTWC-sponsored charity, the Home For The Chronically Bewildered, where her daughter, Bristol, was recently committed.

*A Warning*

            Brother Willy Ficksit, fellow AJATTWCian and owner of the Mr. Ficksit's Auto Repair and Spa, has asked that we pass on the following public service announcement:

            Please make sure you check your car for squirrels before you drive.

That's right, hockey-lovers, err, brothers and sisters, please make sure to check under the hood of your car periodically to ensure that squirrels haven't nested in your engine compartment. Brother Willy said that a fellow garage owner passed on a news report to him from Braintree MA that told of a woman who was having trouble with her car and took it in to her mechanic to be looked at. After a thorough examination, she was told that squirrels had built a nest in the engine compartment, and that, given the fact that the furry little devils had chewed through much of the engine's wiring, she was extraordinarily lucky that the engine, and the whole car, hadn't caught fire.

Brother Willy also said that anyone who would like a free squirrel inspection of their vehicle can bring the car into his shop any weekday before 5:00pm. (Mr. Ficksit's closes at 5:00pm when the spa opens.) FYI, the "squirrel inspection" is free, however, there will be a "hazardous material removal" fee of $150 for any vehicle that has nesting animals.

*Legal News*

            Brother O. Boy Dewey, partner at the law firm of Dewey, Cheatum and Howe, and chairman of the Church's Legal Department, has also asked that a public service announcement be made in The NO BULLetin, concerning uterusesuses, uhh, sorry, uteruses, and their incorporation.

            Brother Boy urges any of the ladies of the Church who are concerned with losing control over their reproductive rights to follow the suggestion of the ACLU in Florida and incorporate your uterus. (Your spleen can continue to be a sole proprietorship.) According to Brother Boy, the organization recently launched a website, www.IncorporateMyUterus.com, that will explain all the issues involved, including such topics as corporate taxation of your uterus, ensuring your uterine corporation has proper legal representation, how to avoid a hostile takeover of your corporation by a partnership led by your gall bladder, and many others. The website also explains how men can incorporate an "honorary uterus".

            Brother Boy also reports that the lawsuit involving the Church's "tax exempt" status, ~U.S. v That Lyin' Sack Of Camel Poop PJTT and the AJATTWC~, is still pending and should come to trial sometime in the next 300 hundred years. For the newer members of the Church, this lawsuit stems from the investigation by the U.S. Department Of Justice into remarks made by your Pope Person that were perceived as "political". Its blatant harassment, and is probably the result of an extreme case of envy on their part. (Serious sarcasm starts here.) I mean, why would the DOJ have a problem with an organization that doesn't pay ONE PENNY in taxes, that is dedicated to the spiritual and moral well being of their congregations, having political opinions and trying to sway their congregation to its way of thinking? Why is that a problem? (Okay, sarcasm all gone.)

            (Your Pope apologizes for the sarcastic editorial comments in the last paragraph (above); I've been told by the Bored of Elders that I may not editorialize in The NO BULLetin, and I forgot, and I'm sorry, and I won't do it again ever. I promise.)

*The AJATTWC's Second Annual Gerbil Golf Outing*

            Men's Club President Brother Bill Collector is pleased to announce that the Church's Second Annual Gerbil Golf Outing will take place on Saturday, 5.3/69, with the first tee time at 8:8:9. All of you gerbil golfers who would like to participate need to put their names (and handicap) on the sign-up sheet in the Church office. Since this is a fund-raising event, as well as a great time, $75 of the $100 "greens fee" for each player will be donated to the Home For The Chronically Bewildered, with the remaining $25 going directly to the Popemeister, to cover expenses and provide beer.

            And folks, please let's not have a repeat of last year's unfortunate incident involving hamsters. The guilty parties confessed, paid for the repairs of the Church kitchen and all was forgiven (except for several really unhappy hamsters). Let's have a great tournament and a fun day.

*Wedding Plans Revealed*

            Brother Hy Waders and his wife, Sister Vanilla, are thrilled to announce that their lovely daughter, Hyram Jr., is to be married on June Umpteenth, here in the Church, to her fiancé and welding instructor, Brother Bob Upendown, son of Brother Letsgo and his lovely wife, Bouncing. The happy couple will have as their best man Mr. Ben Dover, and the maid of honor will be Sister Karen Feeding, and are registered at Sam's Dungeon and Pizza Parlor, the Doll House and WalMart.

*Teen Club Movie Party*

            Sister Deb Utant, the President of the Teens For John, the teen club of the AJATTWC, wants all the teenagers in the Church to know that the TFJ is planning a "movie party" for next Friday evening, starting with seeing the movie "Teens Aflame", a infomovie by Sarah Plain And Loud examining the horror and sluttiness and disgustingness and sinfulness of teenage...uhh, naughty stuff. After the movie, everyone is invited to attend a post-movie discussion of the ultra-right wing conservative, um, excuse me, the issues brought up in the movie. The "discussion group" will "party" here in the Church Meeting Hall, where there will ample armed chaperones. Sister Deb asks that volunteers contact her to help with refreshments.

*Please Patronize Our Sponsors*

            The Bored Of Elders of the Church asks that you patronize the local merchants who so willingly support our activities.

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

            "No case, nor fee, is too small; we're in it for the dough."

            www.MyLawyerCanWhipYourLawyer.com

-Sam's S&M Dungeon and Pizza Parlor

"Tie Me Up and Feed Me Pizza"

227 North Bondage Ave.

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

                        Visit us at www.labeautiful.com

                        All Types Of Plastic Surgery including:

                        -breast augmentation

                        -breast lifts

                        -male breast ("moobs") reduction

                        -hammer toe, (and "screwdriver ear")

                        -facelift

                        -tummy tuck

                        -and many others

            Receive $1000 OFF any qualified procedure with this bulletin

            Free Limo Service with qualified procedures

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

Love and hymnals,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.