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

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

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

(Popephone rings in the background)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Anthony Weiner.

            John Ensign.

            Eliot Spitzer.

            Bill Clinton.

            Newt Gingrich.

            Mark Sanford.

            Arnold Schwarzeneggar.

And on and on and on...

            Geez.

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

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

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

            Geez again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love and Maidenform,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

This One Is For You, Big Guy

"...so, you gotta' date this weekend?...what's Glor, I mean, what's Susie doing this weekend?...oh...hey, sorry, man, that's really too bad...yeah, she was a great gal, Mike, what happened?...yeah...yeah, I could see why that might have pissed her off...listen, dude, I gotta' go, you okay?...hey, hang in there, all right?...call me if you need to talk...okay, buddy...yeah, hey, we'll do Hooters next week, all right?...okay...talk to you later..."

Shit.

I was just on the Popephone with my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one that hangs around with Charles Barkley); he was telling me that he and his girlfriend Susie broke up last week. (Everybody here at the All John All The Time World Church, including me, your Pope Guy, called her Gloria, which was short for Gloria the Gorilla; not to speak ill of the departed (left, not dead), but Gloria had a small, ahh, how can I say this, body hair problem, shall we say? (She looked like she was going to leap into a tree and begin climbing at any moment. Nice girl. Having two eyes but only one eyebrow got her some attention as well.) Anyway, Mike is pretty upset, and I can understand how he feels, having been there once or twice in my life.

Of course, everybody around the office here at the AJATTWC thinks Mike is better off without "Gloria"; she treated him pretty shitty. But walking in and finding him in the bathtub, which was filled at that moment with several gallons of Wesson oil and a collection of USC cheerleaders (female ones only), wasn't designed to be the best method for maintaining connubial bliss. (She didn't buy the story about him trying to score some season tickets to the Trojan's football games. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have bought into that excuse either, and Susie is WAY smarter than I am, as are most women I know. Truth is, I think most women are smarter than ALL men, especially when it comes to the thinking we guys do with the parts of our bodies other than our brain.)

Which brings me to today's topic; advise. No, I don't have any.

But I get tons of letters, emails, texts, smoke-signals, faxes and intergalactic "spail" (that's "speed mail" for you uninitiated), asking me to offer some comforting words, or a bit of advise about a personal problem, or containing a cry for help, loud and clear, for some momentary solace over the loss of someone special in their lives.

So while I don't feel competent to write an "Advise Column", I thought that, periodically, I would entertain some of the communications that I receive from so many of you, my faithful followers, and try to give some insights into the murky realm of interpersonal relationships, based on the message of the soothing balm of Johnism.

(You buyin' into that? Good, I've got some land down in Florida I'd like to talk to you about.)

My first "supplicant", as it were, is a young man named TW (initials only, no names to protect the innocent, and the embarrassed); he writes:

Dear Pope Guy: My wife threw my out of our house several years ago on a cold, winter's evening, after she found out that I had had a "liaison" with a hooker while I was away from home on business. Actually, it was several "liaisons". Okay, I had a whole string of bimbos from coast to coast, and now I'm alone again, and my work is suffering and the lawsuits are starting to pile up. Pope, what can I do to get my wife to come back to me and forget the $100 Bajillion divorce settlement she wants? Signed, How Come There's Only White Balls In My Golf Bag?

Dear "Balls": Well, first off, nice job on the bimbos, dude; it's just like Gertrude Stein once said: "You can never be too rich, and you can never have too many bimbos." But buddy, not cool letting the wife find a text message on your cell phone from Bambie the Bimbo, making crude, but loving, remarks about your johnson; bad move, bro.

            I'd say you have two chances at getting the little women to return; slim and none. Probably best to move on with your life. Oh yeah, and open that checkbook, Birdie Boy, 'cause this one is going to cost you some BIG green's fees.

Or this one from NG:

Dear Popeamundo: I'm a middle-aged guy, married for the third time, and the current Mrs. G is starting to get suspicious about my reasons for wanting to return to public life; she thinks I'm going to go back to my "old" ways, back in the Jurassic period, when if it wore makeup and a skirt, I tried to make a move on it. (Got me into some serious trouble a few years ago when my aide and I walked into a gay bar by accident.) Anyway, she's concerned that it's "full blast and top down" once I get on the road again, and I'm taking a lot of heat at home, to say nothing of what I'm hearing from the media. Any ideas on how I can allay her fears? (Is that like "getting laid?") Signed, Eye Of Newt

Dear "Eye": Sleazebag. And you made ol' Bill C. look almost like a pillar of virtue, which is a hell of a job, lemme' tell you.

Or this cry of help from KK:

Deer Poop Johnn: Hey, who cars if our hole family has the IQ of soap, we have reelaty, err, rialety, shit, reality, there, shows up the wazoo, so who needs your stoopid "Advise Columm", huh? Who wants advisse from an old guy who doesn't even have a gurlfriend, anyway? That's so lame. Hey, do you know where I can get another toy Chiwhawa, ahh, Chiwowa, shit, dog for my purse? I ran over the lasted one I had with my Homer, err, Hummer. Signed, Lost In Hollywood, Which Is As Lost As You Can Get

Dear "Lost": The AJATTWC has an in-house charity called the Home For The Chronically Bewildered; I'm going to recommend to the Bored that you be given consideration as a potential resident of our facility. Oh, yeah, the pictorial in "W" magazine a few months ago was excellent.

Here's one I received just recently:

Dear Pope John The Tall: As we stand on the brink of another four years of lying, filthy Demo, ahh, of a Democratic White House...

That one wasn't supposed to be in this batch of mail.

Okay, here's one that I really haven't had a chance to read yet:

Dear Valued Customer: We see from our records that your subscription to "DDD Beauties" is about to lapse. Why not...

Whoa, THAT one sure wasn't supposed to be in here, either. Geez.

Okay, one more:

Dear Pope Dude: I was Marie Antoinette in another life, which has the benefit of never having to suffer from headaches in this life, but that's not the subject of this letter.

            I recently was on a "singles" cruise when this really nice-looking, but rather hairy, guy came up to me on the shuffle-board court and asked me if I would like to come to his stateroom and check out his collection of holy cards. Well, I was kinda' bored that day, so one thing led to another...

            We spent several wonderful days onboard, having romantic dinners, playing roulette in the casino, hitting gerbils off the fantail with five-irons, enjoying margaritas on the beach at St. Thomas while we watched the sunset, it was truly an idyllic voyage. But right before we docked, on the last day of the cruise, I lost touch with my "Harvey", as he called himself, and I haven't seen him since.

            One thing he mentioned, several times, during our brief time together; he told me he had an important position with your church. Can you help me locate my darling, please? The only other thing I know about him, besides the fur, was that he didn't have much skill with cutlery. Does that help identify him? Please let me know ASAP. Thanks. Signed, Left In The Lurch By Someone From Your Church

Dear "Left": Never heard of him.

That's all the letters I'm going to respond to for the moment; I'll do this again from time to time, to give what comfort I can to the "love afflicted" by extending the soothing balm of Johnism to them. In the meantime, I have a certain dog I need to go find and with whom I need to have a long talk.

The slut.

I knew letting him go on that cruise by himself was a bad idea, but I let him talk me into it, and here we are. "... he didn't have much skill with cutlery...". Geez, Harley, what a sleaze bucket you are.

Oh, here comes the mighty warrior now, back from the trenches of the war between the sexes. Hey, Lothario, what's happenin'? You big dummy, c'mere. (Lots of petting and wrestling and gentle tail-pulling and face-licking and all sorts of human/canine interaction takes place here.)

"Hey, you wanna' go bye-bye? Do you? Careful there, big guy, you wag that tail of yours any harder and it'll come off. Where's your leash, huh? Come on, go get your leash, good boy."

With my sidekick, roommate and backup navigator when we're onboard my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, at my side, we're off to the beach to chase seagulls and good-looking women, preferably semi-clothed types. (The women, not the seagulls.)

And no more cruises, Dog Food Boy; I'm keeping you home, close to me, where you belong.

Because when you have Harley, you don't have any need to write letters to any Pope Guys for advise.

Love and better days,

PJTT and the Harley Dog

Copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.