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.

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.

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.

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.

What Does Steven Spielberg Have That I Don't, Besides Talent, Money And Kate Capshaw

It was back on 2/22, the day before my birthday, which is apropos of nothing, that I made the comment in my post from that day (please see "Second Star To The Right And Straight On To...Cleveland) that the way the Los Angeles Lakers were playing at the time, that they would make it to, but not out of, the second round of the playoffs.

Yesterday afternoon, the Dallas Mavericks eliminated the Lakers four games to NONE in their second round matchup of this year's NBA Playoffs.

Assholes.

And back on 4/25, I posted an essay that contained a partial "screenplay" of an animated video I had decided to make about the Pope (that would be me) and the Harley Dog (that would be Harley, the "official" canine of the All John All The Time World Church and my sidekick and roommate), and have it showcase one day in the lives of the Pope Guy and Harley as they battle the forces of evil and sluttiness all over the world. I asked all of you loyal followers of the Pope to give me your suggestions as to how I could "punch up" the script, and after looking them all over (all two of them), I decided to dump what I was working on and take a whole different approach.

Which I did.

But I did finish the screenplay, and you can check it out below.

I also finished the video about the Pope, and it's called "The Pope John Cheer", and you can check it out at:
<http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/11995168/the-pope-john-cheer>.

WARNING:
          The video "The Pope John Cheer" contains two instances of flatulence. From a female character. For which she apologizes both times. (The second one is a really good one, too.)

Like so many of your Pope's efforts, this one is pretty funny (pardon me if I do say so myself) and is being considered for an Oscar in the category of Best Animated Short By A Pope, which I think I have a good shot at winning, considering the competition. (Yeah, the only Pope competition I have is from Strudel Boy over there in Rome, you know, the genius who recently published a book that said, among other things, that the Jews didn't kill Jesus, the Romans did, and that he thought the Jews ought to be left off the hook for that crime after all these years. You just now figured that out now? What Bible have you been reading, huh? Geez, I knew the Jews were innocent of that charge when I was a kid back in grade school at Our Lady Of Perpetual Motion, even though the good nuns were still trying to pin the deed on descendants of David, the King.)

But I digress, which if you're a regular reader of the Pope's, you know it's something I do frequently. And with no apologies.

So check out the unused screenplay that appears below; it's still a good glimpse into the inner workings of the AJATTWC, what few there are, and shows in vivid detail, how decisions of momentous proportions are made at the highest levels of leadership in our country.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Pope, Harley and the Pope's consigliore, Mike.

OPENING SCENE

A voice-over announcer begins speaking, over a patriotic background of a waving American flag, with a choir, off-camera, softly singing "America The Beautiful".

A: "A rising tide of hysteria and ambergris is sweeping over our nation today, as citizens pour from their homes to protest economic conditions, quality healthcare issues, unemployment and a raft of other social ills, including a serious dearth of Lindsay Lohan films. The people are up in arms, and leaders are needed to steer the course of our mighty nation away from the rocks and shoals of tyranny and chaos and back onto the road that leads to peace and security."

            "But where will these leaders come from? Politicians in Washington are grid-locked, as always, on how to approach the problems that face our country, with partisanship and political party "loyalties" preventing any meaningful dialogue that addresses the issues that the people are protesting. Congress and the President can't seem to be found, and our nation needs a man to step up and be a symbol, a guiding light, to the citizens all over our great land."

            "Is there such a man? Is there a leader out there to give us the benefit of his strength and courage? Is there a man who can turn the tide of history and lead us back to the good times of years gone by? Where is that man?"

ACT I, SCENE I

Office scene, with the Pope, Harley Dog

Open with P sitting at desk, facing camera, head down, working; H rushes in from door behind Pope, and exclaims,

H: "Pope John, the peasants are revolting!"

The Pope, without even looking up from the paper he's reading, replies, "Aw, come on, Harley, they aren't that bad."

H: (agitated, obviously upset) "No, you don't understand, the citizens are rising up against government tyranny, high taxes, crummy working conditions and a shortage of Lindsay Lohan films. There's protests and marches going on all over the country, and the uprising is spreading as fast as Charlie Sheen's latest stupid comment over the 'Net. Pope, you have to do something!"

SCENE II

Street scene, with Protestor #1, Protestor #2

Scene opens to "mob action" on a street somewhere, lots of people milling around, shouting and waving signs of protest. Someone throws a "Molotov cocktail" with a burning wick against the foundation of a building, but it dies out and the fire doesn't spread.

Protestor #1, to Protestor #2, who threw the "cocktail": "Hey, what did you just throw against that building?"

P #2: "It was one of those "Mazeltov" cocktails, you know, like a home-made bomb. You fill the bottle with matzo, stick a fuse in and light it, and then toss it."

P #1: "That's "Molotov" cocktail, not "Mazeltov", you douche-bag, and you fill the bottle with gasoline, not matzo!"

P #2: "Shit, no wonder it didn't burn."

SCENE III

Scene dissolves back to Pope's office with P and H.

H: "Pope John, the people are in desperate need of a leader to step forth and, well, you know, lead; the government is in chaos..."

P: (interrupting) "No its not, its in Washington."

Harley shakes his furry head in disbelief.

H: "How did you ever become Pope of the All John All The Time World Church? Did you cheat on the IQ part of your job application?"

P: "Yeah." Shakes HIS head in disbelief. "Doesn't everyone?"

H: (Still shaking HIS head in disbelief) "You're the Pope, for shit sakes, you're supposed to be above that kind of stuff."

P: "Yeah, but if I hadn't gotten the gig, you and I wouldn't have the all the perks, the Kidding, the Dee Dee, all the women..."

H: (interrupting) "What women?"

P: "Okay, forget the women. Hey, we get to go all over the galaxy and visit all kinds of strange new worlds, hob-nob with planetary big-wigs, we always get comps on the rooms and food, come on, this is a great gig, except for those stupid "missionary" trips the Bored is always sending us on. Anyway, what do you want me to do about the riots? Its not my fault the peasants are revolting."

H: "Come on, Pope, they're not that bad."

SCENE IV

Scene dissolves back to same "mob action", same two protestors, still talking to each other while other rioters run all around them. The scene is general chaos, which is where the government is located.

P #1: "Hey, did you hear that Lindsay Lohan has been hired to play the wife of mobster John Gotti, Jr. in the new biopic about Gotti's father, John, Sr., who was the head of the Gambino Mafia family before he was finally convicted of FIVE murders in 1991?"

P #2: "No shit, sounds like a great role for her. When's it coming out?"

P #1: "Sometime next year. Just as soon as LiLo gets out of jail and they can start shooting." (P #1 raises his eyebrows.) "Great example of type-casting, huh?"

SCENE V

Scene dissolves back to Pope's office, with Harley and the Pope, and new character, Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one that played baseball for the Birmingham Barons), who is the Pope's consigliore. M is standing to the side of P's desk.

P: "Mike, what can we do about the riots? Should I release some kind of statement, make an appearance, play some gerbil golf, what's our approach here?"

M: "Well, Your Loftiness, there are several ways to approach this situation. A round of gerbil golf probably isn't a good idea right now, okay, so let's get that out of the way right out of the gate."

P: "Shit."

M: "Well put, Your Immenseness, very descriptive. Okay, what's our reaction to the situation in the streets? I think we low-key it, and let events run their course..."

P: (interrupting) "I thought we weren't playing gerbil golf?

M: "No, Your Thickness, "run their course" is just a saying; it means we let things develop naturally, without any interference from us. The saying has nothing to do with golf courses." (The consigliore turns away from the Pope towards Harley briefly, and raises his eyebrows at Harley, shaking his head slightly.) "But we will have to have you make some kind of general statement, deploring the violence..."

P: (interrupting again) "Hey, what's wrong with violins? I LIKE violins."

M: "No, Your Grace, v-i-o-l-e-n-c-e, violence, not violins, you deplore the violence in the streets."

P: "Oh."

SCENE VI

Back in the streets again with all the rioters, and the two Protestors, #1 and #2. The situation is still chaotic, and there are more people now running about, breaking windows, terrifying citizens and making them afraid to leave their homes, defying authority, stampeding people and raping cattle. (Thank you, Mel Brooks.)

P #1: "Hey, how about those Dodgers? A new manager, now we got Davey Lopes coaching at first, MLB takes over the team and throws Frank McShitwad out, hey, what a way to start the season, huh?"

P #2: "Yeah, and they beat the Cubs two out of three at Wrigley last week, even better. They might have a decent season yet."

P #1: "Hey, aren't we due at the effigy burning in 10 minutes?"

P #2: "Shit, yeah, we gotta' go, dude."

The two protestors hustle off, stage left. (You know, "Exit, stage left.")

SCENE VII

In the office of RRMMJ, with M talking on the phone.

M: "...yes, sir, that's going to be the Pope's position on the "disturbances"...no, sir, he won't be playing gerbil golf until the crisis is over and things return to normal...yes, sir, I realize "normal" for Pope John is something different from other people's "normal", but I'm sure you get my drift...yes, sir, he will ask the protestors to return to their homes immediately before martial law is invoked by you...yes, sir...yes, sir...no, we won't let him make any other statements...a muzzle and a whip...yes, sir, I'll tell him...thank you, sir, the best of luck to you as well."

P walks in just as M is hanging up the phone.

P: "Mike, what's the latest?"

M: "Well, sir, I just got off the phone with the President; I advised him of your statement and what you plan to say to the protestors. He was concerned, sir, that you might, how can I say this, ahh, step on your johnson with the folks on the streets if you aren't careful, you know, maybe say the wrong thing, make matters worse somehow..." M's voice peters out at the end of the sentence.

P: (not really listening, looking nervous and uncomfortable) "Do we have enough Girl Scout cookies on hand, in case things get really ugly out there and we can't place an order for more? I don't want to run out of Thanks-A-Lots."

M: "Yes, sir, there's several cases in the storeroom, and more on order."

As the two men are talking, Harley walks in the office, stands in one place for a moment, and then walks out, never saying a word. Suddenly, both men get pained looks on their faces and, placing their hands over their noses, walk simultaneously to the open window.

M: (gasping and keeping his nose covered with his hand) "Geez, what do you feed him, roadkill? Nothing that isn't already dead should smell that bad."

P: (also gasping and dry-heaving) "Dry dog food, I swear that's all he gets, its like breathing the air here in the Valley gives him gas. Man, that's awful."

ACT II, SCENE I

In the Pope's office again, with P behind desk, staring at cameras across from him at the far side of the room. He is addressing the cameras, and has some papers on the desk in front of him. P appears in his "Pope" clothes, a surplice and the tall "Pope" hat.

P: "...and so, in conclusion, my fellow Americans, let me just say that until and unless all protestors stop their illegal acts and vacate the streets, law and order cannot be restored and the Girl Scouts will continue to have great difficulty in making their deliveries, which is a situation that none of us want. Please, I implore you, cease your activities and go back to your homes so your government can begin to get things back to where they belong, and we can start to undress the issues that you have raised."

(A quick cut to M's face as he grimaces at hearing P say "undress".)

P: (continuing his speech) "Thank you for taking the time to listen to what I had to say here this evening, and so you know, my staff is currently working on scheduling a tour for myself and the Harley Dog, where we'll travel to as many cities as humanly and caninely possible, bringing the soothing balm of Johnism to you all. Watch for announcements as to where and when we'll be appearing."

            "Please, if you love your country and great cookies, please, all of you, return to your homes and let's give peace a chance." (In the background, a choir in robes files into the Pope's office, humming quietly, and lines up in rows adjacent to the P's desk, and with a signal from their director, who filed in with them and took a place in front of the group, they begin singing "All We Are Saying Is Give Peace A Chance".)

P: (over the singing) "Thank you, my fellow Armenians, and may Dagon bless. And Go Dodgers!"

(Another quick cut to the face of M, grimacing again at the Pope's words.)

Director: (off camera) "Cut, that's a wrap."

(Cut back to P, who is removing a tiny microphone from where it was clipped on his vestments.)

P: "Well, whatta' ya' think, that went pretty good, didn't it?"

M: "Yes, Your Unbelievableness, it went fine."

Just then, the Harley Dog walks in the Pope's office, stops in the middle of the floor, stands for a moment, and then leaves again, without saying a word.

And suddenly both men grab their noses and head out of the office in a rush, as the scene fades to black.

The End.

So whatta' think, it's Oscar material, right? (Yeah, Oscar the Grouch.) Anyway, Harley really liked it a lot; he was particularly pleased with the "flatulence" scenes. (Have you noticed a flatulence trend here?)

And of course, the Hollywood bug has bitten him: he demands to have some input into who plays him in the video; he wants James Franco, but that's a no-go for yours truly, because I thought Franco dissed Anne Hathaway at this year's Oscars, and since I also think that AH is a MAJOR cutie/hottie, no Franco.

I'm thinking of Zelda Rubenstein to play the Pope, you know, the tiny little actress who played in "Poltergeist", which, by the way, is the German word for "Roman-hater".

Love and Academy Awards,

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 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.

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 Lakers embarass themselves against Mavericks." 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 basketball. Or burgers, for that matter.

So the Creator rested on what came to be called the Sabbath, watched the Lakers annihilate the Mavs, 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.

A Six Day Work Week, With Benefits

No one is sure what motivated the Creator to suddenly get up one day 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 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 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.

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 first game of the Lakers/Mavericks series." 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 basketball. Or burgers, for that matter.

So the Creator rested on what came to be called the Sabbath, watched the Lakers annihilate the Mavs, and got back to his job of creation 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 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 Sunday, huh? Yeah.

Love and triple time,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.