"...scalpel...forceps...mallet..."

(I will open today's essay with a serious disclosure...on Friday, May 9, 2014, Dr. Mark Danielson of Joliet IL, performed a hernia repair procedure on yours truly at Silver Cross Hospital in New Lenox IL. I'm going to be poking fun at some of the situations that were involved in this surgery, and the recovery afterwards, but in no way should anyone take this as an indictment of Dr. Mark; he's a great guy, an excellent surgeon/doctor and an all-around decent human being. I'm just going to be having some fun with what is proving to be a signature event in my life, but in no way does this reflect on the good doctor.)

(I just hope he has a good sense of humor and doesn't raise my bill after he reads this.)

Does the guy above look, I don't know, like he's stoned, or is it just me?

Well, sports fans, it's time once again for our favorite fix'em-up guy, Dr. Bill O'Lading, to address your health concerns in his featured column here on your Pope Guy's blog:

DR. BILL'S HEALTH TITS

I am, of course, your Pope, John The Tall, leader and 3rd base coach of the All John All The Time World Church (see explanation above for how this travesty came to be), and as you may recall, Dr. O'Lading is the director of the Church-sponsored charity, the Home For The Chronically Bewildered, as well as a regular contributor to your Popeamundo's weblog. Dr. Bill...

ring...ring...ring...

Damn, there's goes the Popephone.

"PJTT"..."hey, Mike"..."AGAIN?"..."shit"..."I know"..."I know, I make that mistake every time I do a Dr. Bill column"..."shit"...(large sigh of disgust from your Popemeister here)..."okay, I'll take care of it"..."thanks".

Shit.

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one who does the Hanes underwear commercials); he noticed a small error in the column title above, and thought I might want to correct it.

DR. BILL'S HEALTH TIPS

Today, Dr. Bill and I are going to have a frank and earnest (he'll be Frank and I'll be Ernest) exchange of questions and answers about my recent experience with having a surgical procedure, specifically, the repair of my inguinal hernia last Friday, which I will note here was my first-ever experience with surgery and anasthist, err, anestlisti, shit, ansthrfdis, being put under to be operated upon.

(I don't want you to think I was nervous before the surgery, which was, in this instance, performed as an out-patient procedure, but my blood pressure was 356 over 90 beforehand; afterwards, they could find no pressure whatsoever. Although the "bad news" was that the operation was not a success, the "good news" was that I awoke in a place where the grilling and barbequing were outstanding.)

"Please to meet you, hope you guessed my name..." 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vBecM3CQVD8

No, that's not true; I made that part up.

Anyway, let's get right to the Q's and A's on today's topic...

~PJTT: Dr. Bill, please explain what "iguanas" have to do with "a small tissue that bulges out through an opening in the abominable", excuse me, "abdominal wall".

~Dr. Bill: That's "INGUINAL", you moron, not "iguana". Geez, what a putz.

~PJTT: Oh, sorry. Okay, but wouldn't you say that Flaming Iguanas would be a great name for a rock band?

~Dr. Bill: Yes, on the whole, I believe that would be a superlative name for a rock band.

~PJTT: According to the literature given to me by Dr. Mark, my surgeon and knife/sword guy (his wife handles the "fire-breather" responsibilities in the family, see pic below)...

...an "inguinal hernia appears as a bulge in the groin or scrotum". Wouldn't it be a lot safer for men if this bulge was in a much less sensitive area of the anatomy, say, the middle of the forehead?

~Dr. Bill: Yes, that's probably so, but having your genitalia over your eyebrows would most likely detract from your manly good looks, to say nothing of drastically redefining the term "giving head".

~PJTT: Would this also explain why this same literature declaims that "persons sexually active before the operation reported being able to return to sexual activity in 14 days (average)"?

~Dr. Bill: It might, but since I know, as your physici, err, physcont, shit, as your doctor, that your idea of "sexual activity" involves a llama, a trombone, two companies of the NYFD and a 55-gallon drum of lime Jello, the "average" or "normal" in this case might not apply.

~PJTT: As I said, this was my first experience with anishest, shit, the "sleepy stuff" and with surgery, and I was impressed with how careful the staff was to ensure I was who I said I was (regularly checking and re-checking my ID bracelet at various steps in the procedure) and also to ensure they didn't remove a spleen or other organ by mistake (Dr. Mark asked me to confirm that the "igauna" was on my right side, and initialed same, prior to surgery); this was particularly comforting to someone, like myself, who, in my very first hospital experience, when I was born, my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Pope, upon my mother and I being discharged, left me behind and went home with the wrong baby. (True story. Not to make my folks look dumb or anything, but the other kid was African-American.) Is this now accepted procedure in modern hospitals, or is the staff at Silver Cross Hospital just a bunch of paranoid nut-cases?

Dr. Bill: The stock market today closed lower in moderate trading, and the Dow was, oh, I'm sorry, did you address that stupid question to me?

PJTT: Re the "sleepy stuff"...after the anest, never mind, after the sleepy stuff doctor made her injection, they wheeled me down to the operating room, where, one moment, I was shooting the breeze with the OR nurse about the Chicago Blackhawks hockey team, only to awaken the next moment in the Recovery room, procedure complete; it wasn't like drifting off to sleep, more like falling off a cliff into oblivion. Is this normal?

Dr. Bill: Define normal.

PJTT: I wasn't sleepy or nauseous post-surgery, as my daughter seemed to think I should be (she kept exclaiming "I can't believe you're not sleepy" as we sat, after she got me home, eating lunch at the dining-room table), but I have had some other post-procedure problems. The first was a REALLY sore throat...and since the area of my anatomy that was worked on is quite a ways south of my throat, what gives with that?

Dr. Bill: The "sleepy stuff" doctor inserts a "ventilator tube" down your throat during the operation to ensure that you're breathing properly (see pic below). This might explain the throat discomfort you experienced.

PJTT: Also, the literature mentioned above noted that "you should contact your surgeon if you do not have a bowel movement 3 to 4 days after the operation". I was unfortunate enough to become constipated, to the tune of no BM by Monday AM (three days), at which time I in fact contacted my surgeon, who was not in the office that day; I left a message begging for some type of relief. (Dynamite had crossed my mind at this point.) His nurse called me back later that day, and suggested Milk-of-Magnesia, which I'm told is vile-tasting stuff, never having used it before. (The First Daughter got me "cherry-flavored".) I did as Nurse Diesel suggested, and the M of M had no more than touched my stomach when I was stricken with the most unbelievable urge to poop I have ever had; upon sitting on my throne (hey, I'm the Pope, remember?), I was rewarded with what I believe was truly a) a religious experience and b) the most amazing dump I have ever taken. ("Outbound Express" comes to mind.) I considered taking pictures, but decided that even I had more class than that. What is the cause of this horror?

Dr. Bill: Pain meds can often times cause constipation, or it just might be that you're full of shit and it finally came to the top. Or bottom, as the case may be.

PJTT: The other area of discomfort I went through was quite a surprise to me...on Sunday morning after the operation, I noticed that, well, pardon my indelicacy here, but that my genitalia were becoming bruised and swollen, and not in the normal manner, as a prelude to, well, you know, sex. As the day progressed, so did the bruising/swelling, to the point that, by mid-afternoon MY JOHNSON AND RIGHT TESTICLE LOOKED LIKE SOMEONE HAD TAKEN A BALL-PEEN HAMMER TO THEM. REPEATEDLY. WITH MALICE AFORETHOUGHT. I hadn't even started to tease Dr. Mark about ANYTHING at that point, so I couldn't understand why he would do this to me. Can you explain why MY JOHNSON WAS A REALLY UGLY SHADE OF BLUE/BLACK, WHILE MY RIGHT BALL LOOKED LIKE, AND WAS THE SIZE OF, A PURPLE EASTER EGG?

Dr. Bill: If you recall, as Nurse Diesel put it, with all the "yanking and pulling" that goes on during surgery, the area is subjected to stress it is not used to, thus producing the bruising and swelling you mentioned. You will further recall that Dr. Mark explained to you that he had to insert a 4-inch square piece of "mesh" to correct the tear in your abdomen (bolted in, I presume); this could easily account for the bruising and swelling you're crying about.

PJTT: Yeah, but Dr. Bill, I've done plenty of "yanking and pulling" in that area over the course of my lonely life, and I've never experienced anything like this. MY JOHNSON LOOKED LIKE A SHORT PIECE (very short) OF PURPLE AND BLUE SMOKED SAUSAGE. This is normal???

Dr. Bill: Oh, did I mention that Dr. Mark received a sizeable check from your ex-wife recently? No?

Well, followers of your Pope Guy and lovers of the "soothing balm of Johnism", that's all the Q's and A's we time for today; I'd like to thank Dr. Bill for his mostly non-responsive answers to my questions, and to caution all of you...the next time you need to lift ANYTHING over 10 pounds in weight, remember my johnson.

Oh, and FYI, I think the guy in the pic at the top of the page looks like he's had a little too much "sleepy stuff".

Love and health insurance,

PJTT

copyright 2014 Krissongs Inc.

Happy Empty Hotdog (or) Have A Great Holloweenie!

Since I hadn't yet been selected to be the Pope of the All John All The Time World Church last Halloween, this will be my first annual Happy Holloweenie post, and I think it's going to be a good one. And since my opinion is the only one that counts, at least here at the AJATTWC, tough cookies what you guys think.

First, a little history of the holiday (and name) Halloween. (Or would you rather I go right into the dirt-bag stuff? Yeah, that's what I thought you would say.) But you know what? For once, your ol' Pope Guy is going to show some taste and do this whole Halloween presentation properly, and with class. (If the Pumpkin Lady up at the top of the page turns around, she'll be showing some serious, umm, class also.)

The word Halloween is a Scottish variant of the words All Hallow's Even, which translates into modern English as All Hallowed Evening, or in other words, the night before November 1st, which is All Saints Day on the Roman Catholic calendar. The jack o' lanterns, which were originally carved to commemorate the souls in Purgatory, as well as the witches and goblins and Rick Perrys and all that other scary stuff came from various similar pagan rituals and old country traditions that all refined down to the celebration of Halloween that we have today, complete with the elements of magic, witchcraft, hauntings, the dead rising, cats and dogs sleeping together (thanks, Billy M.) and so many other of our more quaint Halloween traditions.

For example, the tradition of "dressing up" for Halloween came from Irish and Scottish festivals that celebrated the end of summer and the beginning of what was referred to as "O'Freak Time", when people would make themselves up in various scary motifs, to amuse friends and scare the living bejeezus out of all the kids in the neighborhood. Here's an example of a 16th century "o'shamus" or "goofball", as they were known then.

This tradition was eventually refined down to "trick-or-treating", where village children would dress in fanciful costumes (see the Cowboy Pope costume below) and go door to door in the village, mockingly threatening to pull a "Trick" on the individual villager if they weren't given a "Treat".

(My grandfather, Pope Howard The Humble, tells the story of how the villagers in his time stopped the annoying tradition of trick-or-treating; gramps lived in Hell...Hell MI...

...and of course, since it was Hell, they had the gates thereto, right outside of town. So one Halloween, when Gramps and all the neighbors had had enough window soaping, and outhouse tipping, and wargle flogging (ever had your wargle flogged? well I should say) and newspaper in the trees (hey, it was the Depression, nobody could afford toilet paper) and so forth, the neighbors all got together, rounded up all the village kids, blindfolded them and took them out to...

...the Gates Of Hell, and told the little miscreants that any further mischief in the town on Halloween would result in ALL the children being "banished to the Gates Of Hell", or at least to Cleveland, for the rest of their natural lives.

The following Halloween, there were no incidents of vandalism or wanton foolishness, other than the "Bobbing For Alligators" down at the VFW's "Haunted House".

Other types of Halloween...damn (phone rings in background).

"PJTT...hey, Mike, happy Halloween...yeah, thanks, what's up?...they want us to go WHERE?...Zimbabwe? What the hell is in Zimbabwe, except the ebert?...oh, yeah, you're right, that is LOWER Zimbabwe for the ebert...he did what?...ooohh, that's sick...so why are we being sent there?...they really think this guy can be saved?...oh...oh...(large sigh of resignation here)...okay, when do we leave?...THIS AFTERNOON?!? Geez, thanks for the advance warning...okay, get the guys in back to fire up the Kidding, get her fitted out and loaded, and we'll leave as soon as they're ready. Have you reached Art yet?...yeah, okay, lemme' know."

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one that plays golf with Charles Barkley); he informed me that the Bored Of Elders needs myself, the Harley Dog, Mike, and Captain Art Senscrafts, the pilot of my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, or RU Kidding for short, to be off on an emergency missionary trip to Zimbabwe, to spread the message of the soothing balm of Johnism, because if the reports on AOL.com are accurate, there's some folks down there that REALLY need some help. Maybe all they can get.

I'll give you a full report when we return.

(...several days later...)

Wow. Boy, there was a guy who was in SERIOUS need of the soothing balm of Johnism, amongst a few other things, like serious psychiatric help as an example.

Or maybe it was Halloween magic...ooohhoooohhoooohh.

Okay, it seems "a 28-year old Zimbabwe man who was arrested for allegedly having sex with a donkey tied to a tree had a simple explanation for his actions: the donkey was actually a prostitute who had, well, made an ass of herself."

"According to the newspaper New Zimbabwe, Sunday Moyo, the 28-year-old, told the court he paid $20 for a prostitute he met at a nightclub. Somewhere in the time between meeting her and when he was arrested, the prostitute transformed from a woman into a donkey."

"'Your worship, I only came to know that I was being intimate with a donkey when I got arrested,'" he told the court. Mr. Moyo went on to say that, "'I do not know what happened when I left the bar, but I am seriously in love with (the) donkey.'" Love Potion #9, maybe?

According to local police, "Moyo was charged with bestiality and ordered to undergo psychiatric evaluation."

And the Bored wanted us to do what to help this guy? HE WAS MAKING IT WITH A DONKEY, YOU NIMRODS, WHAT THE HELL WERE WE SUPPOSED TO DO FOR HIM? FIX HIM UP WITH A ZEBRA NEXT? GEEZ.

Okay, so we spread the good word of the soothing balm of Johnism all over the Zimbabweanian countryside, checked out some really excellent Old Lion Ale, had a few laughs and headed home. Maybe there was Halloween magic in this incident, but I sure didn't see it. But we did enjoy our first time in Africa, land of headshrinkers (2nd only to Beverly Hills) and Lower Zimbabweanian eberts, and magic donkeys (?).

Do you guys remember the ebert? It's a small, furry two-headed mammal with an enormous sex-organ from Lower Zimbabwe. (The ebert is from Lower Zimbabwe, not it's sex-organ.)

You know, I just can't think of a way to end this story...a donkey. Yeeooooowah.

If I really knew any Halloween magic, I think I'd make Mr. Moyo disappear.

Love and bubbling cauldrons,

PJTT

Copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

The Pope And Harley World Tour: "Incognito", Part Three (And Counting)

"Off we go, into the wild blue yonder, flying high, into the sun...".

And all I want to know is, what exactly is a "wild blue yonder?" Is there such a thing as a "wild green yonder"? How does a yonder become a "wild blue" yonder? Is it genetics? Are we flying into the wild blue yonder or into the sun? (Boy, is this song ambivalent.)

Ring...ring...rin

"PJTT...hey, Mike, how are you?...yeah...yeah...okay, let's table that idea for the moment...oh, yeah, I just started to write it....it's what?...well, wouldn't it make more sense with a comma after "blue"?...I mean, it sounds like they're saying they're going off into the "wild blue yonder", not the "wild blue, yonder"...never mind, I'll talk to you later, I have to finish my post now."

Geez.

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan, (by now you know it's not the same one that played for North Carolina, right?); apparently he had a small problem with what I wrote in the second paragraph. And later on, after I finish my essay on the soothing balm of Johnism for all my loyal followers, I'll speak with Monsignor Jordan and remind him who's Pope around here at the All John All The Time World Church. (I'll have the Bored Of Elders of the Church demote him back to deacon if he gives me any more lip.)

In our last episode (I really do like writing that phrase)...

In our last episode...

In our last episode...

Okay, I got it out of my system.

In our last episode, your Pope Dude (that would be me) and the Harley Dog, were just departing Northern China after interviewing the head of the state science agency, Dr. Bang Agong, about, and being given a first-hand "tour" of, the 7-1/2 foot long, 25-ton iron meteorite that was recently discovered by miners in the vicinity. Just after we politely declined Dr. Agong's generous offer to stay for lunch. ("Hey," he said, "you and dog like Chinese food? Big special on pork-fried rice at commissary. Well, we call "pork".")

So with no pork-fried rice in our stomachs, and no money in our clothes, wait, that was from "Angie" by the Rolling Stones, that doesn't belong here, let's try that again.

So with no "pork"-fried rice in our stomachs, we took off from China in the RU Kidding (see the first in this series of essays, posted to my blog on 8/10, to learn more about the Pope's atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, or RU Kidding for short), headed for the next stop in the World Tour, this time to meet with Dr. Peter N. Thewolf, a space scientist at Athabasca University in Alberta, Canada; Dr. Thewolf was the one who recently discovered the "Trojan asteroid" that is currently orbiting around the Sun, directly alongside Planet Earth, using the exact same trajectory as our planet.

(Somebody please explain something to me: why would you name an asteroid after a condom?)

We arrived in Alberta in the late afternoon, and since our appointment with Dr. Thewolf wasn't until the next morning, Harley and I decided to check out some of the sights of Western Canada after we had our dinner.

We got back to the hotel about an hour later, which should tell you a lot about the night life in Alberta; beautiful country, but it sure isn't LA (pronounced LAH). Shit, Alberta isn't even Cleveland.

"Dr. Thewolf, please explain the significance of the discovery of this "Trojan" asteroid that is orbiting the Sun in the same orbit as the Earth; what can we learn from this phenomena?" I asked the doctor in his office the next morning.

"Well, Your Tallness, scientists have long suspected the existence of these asteroids, circling right along with Earth as the planet makes it's way around the Sun; we've seen them in many other instances, alongside other planetary bodies. Jupiter, Neptune and Mars all have Trojan asteroids orbiting along the same path as the planets."

"You see, Pope, there are spots along the axis of a planet's orbit around the Sun where the gravitational pull of the Earth and the Sun cancel each other out, and those points, called "Lagrangian points", are where objects, like a space station or an asteroid, can "park", so to speak, and travel along with the planet it's attached to, gravitationally; think of the Moon and it's relationship to the Earth. Same thing." He paused to relight the pipe he had been smoking while we talked.

"So how does that benefit the people of Earth?" I asked.

"Excellent question, Your Tallness, excellent; you cut right to the heart of the matter. The reason we're so excited about discovering these asteroids in Earth's orbit is that they will make ideal candidates for visits from astronauts on manned space missions. Think about being physically on the surface of a planetary object that, most likely, has existed since right after the Big Bang; the scientific data on that chunk of space rock will be incredible. We should be able to determine a lot of what happened, and when, and how, at the time of the Solar System's first few moments. Absolutely amazing."

So for the third time in as many personal visits as we've had on this Tour, the person we came to meet with has mentioned the Big Bang, and none of them were referring to the TV show. At least I don't think they were.

Dr. Thewolf, Harley and I chatted pleasantly for another half hour, and then we excused ourselves to the good doctor, and took our leave. (We took the Kidding, too; it was a long walk to our next stop in Washington, D.C. from Alberta, Canada. And didn't she play keyboards for Macwood Fleet once?)

(Alberta Canada, you know, like Sue Smith or Hermione Trotbottom? Geez.)

We had one more scheduled stop on our Tour, a meeting with another doctor, this one in Chemistry. (Actually, the doctor has his Ph.D in Chemistry, but he was really in Washington, D.C., where the Center For Really Important Space Stuff is located, and where Dr. Aaron Thetires, who was the co-author of a groundbreaking new work on DNA in space, has his office.)

Dr. Thetires and his team of researchers at the CFRISS have determined, through all kinds of really esoteric and boring as hell science experiments, that, per their report, "the components of DNA have now been confirmed to exist in extraterrestrial meteorites."

We were escorted to what was obviously a working chemistry lab in the lower part of the CFRISS building, and that's where we met with Dr. Thetires, amidst Bunsen burners, pipettes (small pipes?), miles of tubing and bubbling retorts. (You've heard of scathing remarks? Well, these were bubbling retorts.)

"So, doctor, what significance will your discovery of the basic building blocks of DNA on these "extraterrestrial" bodies have for us here on Earth?" I asked him, after we had been brought stools to sit on; well, they brought me a stool, but they didn't bring anything for the Harley Dog. (But that's okay, I let him whizz all over their shrubbery before we left.)

"Your Strangeness, there is no way I can emphasize how important this discovery is," he said. "Finding nucleobase compounds not typically found in Earth's biochemistry strongly supports an extraterrestrial origin, and that would seem to suggest life as we know it on Earth having a possible extraterrestrial origin as well."

Dr. Thetires' findings reveal that meteorites may have been molecular tool kits, providing the essential building blocks for life on Earth, as well as possibly other planets as well.

"All this has implications for the origins of life on Earth and potentially elsewhere," Thetires said. "Are these building blocks of life transferred to other places where they might be useful? Can alternative building blocks be used to build other things? The potential is staggering."

"Is this part of the whole "Big Bang" thing?"

"Absolutely. These meteorites may have been floating around space since the time of the BB, just waiting for a new planet to bump into, much like the Genesis Machine in the Star Trek movie "The Wrath Of Khan", although not quite as dramatic. But the same principle obtains; something started the chain of life on Earth, and this discovery may lead us to know what, or Who, as the case may be." (The capital in the word was implied in Dr. Thetires' voice.)

"Or Who?" I asked.

And just as he was about to answer, my cell phone went off; it was RRMMJ, telling me that we were needed back at the headquarters of the AJATTWC, which is located in the sunny and always inappropriate San Fernando Valley area of LA.

We excused ourselves to Dr. Thetires, thanked him for his time and headed out to the Kidding for the quick jump home. Dr. Thetires promised to email the rest of his thoughts to me later that day.

The next, and last, episode, and Dr. Thetires final remarks? Same Bat time, same Bat channel, boys and girls.

Love and Star Wars,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Flaming Iguanas (And Hiram, The Three-Legged Hero Pig)

Flaming Iguanas.

Yeah, don't tell me that wouldn't be a great name for a rock band.

Flaming Iguanas.

It could also be one of those real fancy "on-fire" desserts you get in those snooty restaurants where, when the waiter first comes to your table, he introduces himself as "Ferdinand", and tells you that he will be your server this evening, and then hands you the "Kiddie Menu" to peruse, because he can tell, just by looking at you, that there's no way in hell you can afford anything on the regular menu.

"...and our dessert specialty for Tuesday is baked Flaming Iguanas, covered in a rich boysenberry sauce. With pickles."

Okay, none of that has anything whatsoever to do with your Pope Guy's message of the soothing balm of Johnism for today. No, today we're going to talk about "scanning electron microscopes", no, wait a minute, I already talked about that a few weeks ago. How about if we make our topic for today: "Boogers: Gross Expectoration Or Miracle Adhesive?"

Ring...ring...rin

"PJTT...hey, Mike, what's up?...uh-oh...yeah...yeah...so why do we have to go there?......they said what?...that's a long way to go to just for that...oh...no, never heard of him...yeah, we can check out both while we're there...sure...okay, but when HD and I get back, how about we check out a Dodgers game, whatta' say?...yeah, that would be great...okay, I'll call you when we get back...hey, tell the guys in back to start getting the Kidding ready, okay?...thanks...yeah...hey, have you seen my copy of this month's "DDD Beauties"?...okay, maybe Harley has it...later."

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan, (no, not the one that used to live in Chicago); he tells me that the Bored Of Elders of the All John All The Time World Church have a "missionary trip" they want Harley and I to go on. (Harley? He's my roommate, sidekick, sparring partner and backup navigator when we're onboard the Royal Unionship Kidding, my atomic powered rocket ship, which we affectionately refer to as the RU Kidding for short; that's his picture over there --->. Handsome devil, isn't he? Just like his owner. Hey, there's a picture of the RU Kidding over there as well. Fine ship, wouldn't you say?)

It seems that the staff here at the AJATTWC alerted the Bored Guys to a situation down in the Philippines ("Pines Of Phillip"?) that the Bored wants HD and I to go investigate and then do what we can to spread the message of the soothing balm of Johnism. (The Bored Guys get paid by the convert.)

So we're off in the morning on the Kidding to the Philippines, to check out the story about...

...not using geckos (you know, geckos, small, green lizards, icons of Geico Insurance) as a medical cure for impotence.

Now when the RRMMJ told me about this assignment, I had no idea why the Bored thought that using geckos to help people who have an inflated view of themselves, well, it just didn't make any sense. Why do they care if somebody in the Philippines thinks they're special? I just don't understand what one...shit, damn phone hasn't stopped ringing all morning.

"PJ...Mike, I'm right in the middle of writing my post for today, what's up?...it's what?..."imPOtent", oh, I thought they were saying "important", for crissake...yeah, that changes things completely...yeah, okay, thanks."

My consigliore again; he tells me I, well, let's just say I had a slight misunderstanding of my assignment.

Since the Kidding is capable of speeds up to and exceeding the Speed Of Aroma, we can make the "jump" to the Philippines in about 1.36 hours, or about as long as it took Lindsay Lohan to screw up after she was released from "house arrest" recently.

Up, up and away...

(Later the next day...)

So we arrived here in the sweltering Philippines today, and immediately contacted environmental officials here to explain why they feel people shouldn't use geckos to treat impotence. We were granted an audience with Dr. Gary Indiana, a Filipino/American doctor who recently was named as Director of their national health agency.

Dr. Indiana told us that he didn't particularly care if Filipino's used geckos to treat their impotence problems or not, but that since an 11-ounce gecko, which is apparently the average size of your average gecko, is right now selling over the Internet for at least 50,000 pesos each, which is about $1,160.00 in good ol' American dollars, he wants this illegal trading of these animals halted until he can figure a way to get in on the action.

I looked at HD, and with a dismissive shake of our heads, bid Dr. Indiana a good morning and got the hell outta' there. There wasn't much either Harley or I could do for this guy.

Besides, that was only one reason we were sent to the Philippines.

It seems as though one of our Bored members, Brother Terry Cloth, heard of a miracle that had allegedly taken place on a farm back in the Filipino hills outside of Vanilla, the capitol of the Philippine Islands, and that was what they REALLY wanted me to check out when we were there.

We already knew the location of the farm where the supposed "miracle" took place, so we hopped on our rented Vespa (hey, collections are down almost every Sunday these days, so you save where you can, okay?), and headed up into the hills.

We arrived at the farm a little after lunch, and when we knocked on the door of the small, but very neat farmhouse, a short, balding man dressed in rural clothing answered the door. We introduced ourselves and explained why we were there. His name, we learned, was Petras Moss, or Pete as he was known in the small village where he resided.

"Oh," he said, "you want to know about Hiram, my pet three-legged pig."

"Was this the animal that was involved in some kind of supposed miracle recently?" I asked him.

"Yeah," he said, "that's the one. Come on, I'll introduce you to him."

So he took us around back to a pigpen behind the house, and there in the pen was a normal-looking, pretty much every day pig, except for the fact that it only had three legs; it was missing it's front left leg, along with hoof, fur, etc.

"So, Pete, how did Hiram come to lose his front leg?" I asked. (Harley decided that Hiram was too big to eat, and went back to take a nap in the shade of our "chopper".)

"Well," says Pete the Filipino farmer, "that's a great story."

"This was last July; I came out one morning, figured I'd do some plowing that day, needed to bust up the middles, so I went into the barn and got my plow and all the rigging out, and I was just starting to hitch up the team to the plow when a dog-faced water snake (honest, I didn't make that one up, it's indigenous to the Philippines) crawled out from under the barn and spooked those mules somethin' awful. They heaved up on their rear legs, snortin' and tryin' to stomp that snake, and with all the jumpin' around and such, they pushed me right over on my back with the plow right on top of me, and as I hit the ground, I heard my arm go snap, and I knew she was broke, sure enough." He took a moment to look over at Hiram in his pen.

"Yes, sir," he says as he turns back towards me, "ol' Hiram really saved my bacon that day, pardon the pun."

"Why is that?"

"Well, that ol' snake, he's tryin' to get away from those mule's hooves that are landing on the ground all around him, and he turns and starts wriggling right towards me. Ol' Hiram sees this, sees I can't get up with the plow on top of me and my arm all twisted around funny, so he jumps over that fence there around his pen, charges right at that snake, and before the snake could turn to meet him, Hiram gets his snout up under the snake and "throws" that sucker back under the mules, who then stomp the shit outta' of it. So then Hiram runs up on the back porch, snortin' and gruntin' and making all kinds of noise and 'bout that time, my wife hears all the commotion and runs outside to see what was going on and, well, I guess you could say ol' Hiram saved my life that day."

"Wow," I said, "that's an amazing story. Did Hiram still have all four of his legs back then?"

"Oh, yeah, he didn't lose that front leg of his until just this past spring."

"How did he lose his leg?" I asked.

"Yeah, Hiram there, he's a hero in this house, best pig ever," he said. "Don't know that I've ever seen a smarter one than him."

"You know, you're probably right, Pete, but tell me, how did he come to lose his left front leg?"

"We let ol' Hiram start eating his meals with us in the house; figured that was the least we could do for him, you know, since he saved my life and he's a hero and all. Yes sir, that Hiram, he's a special pig, I'll tell you what."

"Okay, right, Pete, but how did he lose his leg?"

"You know, we've had lots of media people out here, asking about Hiram, ever since the accident; he's sorta' our "reality star" here in the village, people coming by, stoppin' to see him and all." ("Why Emm Cee Ay, it's fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A...") (Okay, "village, people", get it? Geez.)

"Pete, HOW DID HIRAM LOSE HIS LEG??" I finally screamed.

"Oh," says Pete, "Hiram's a great pig, a hero. You don't eat a great pig like that all at once."

Harley and I returned to the bucolic but always sunny, at least when it's in season, San Fernando Valley the next day.

Love and ham sandwiches,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Keep 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. I should probably see the Papal Physician; I understand they have medicine for digression these days, like Zoloft and Prozac, it's such a problem.)

So for today's uplifting message, damn, there's goes the Popephone again...

 

"...PJTT...Mike, I'm running behind, what's up?...I'm sorry?...oh, DEPRESSION, I thought they were saying, well, anyway, I'll have to fix that, won't I?...thank you."

 

Asshole; I hate when he does that.

 

Just never mind.

 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Mortimer The Kaoliang Parrot And The LamaBall Finals

"...so here's what I'm thinking, okay? You, me and the Harley Dog jump in the Kidding, haul ass to KrylonA42, do the dedication gig, jump back onboard and head over to Lowawatha and catch the LamaBall finals. It shouldn't take more than a day to get there from KA42, puts us there on 5698.32, a whole day early almost, whatta' say, how's that sound?...cool...ARE YOU READY FOR SOME LAMABAAAAALL?!?...cool...okay, do me favor, I gotta' take HD outside, get the guys to start working on the Kidding, all right?...thanks...yeah...hey, tell them I said to make sure they stock the kitchen and ESPECIALLY the 'fridge the RIGHT way...they'll know what I mean, believe me...okay, call me later, yeah...yeah."

Way cool.

As the Pope Guy of the All John All The Time World Church, I get invited to all kinds of ceremonies and conferences and various spiritual get-togethers all over the Galaxy, things like the coronation of new heads of state, or the installation of Bishops and Gerborks (that's what they call "bishops" on Hercyon III), or symposiums of "religious" leaders, an occasional shopping center opening, you know, stuff like that. So when my staff informed me that I had been asked to attend the dedication of the new cathedral on KrylonA42, I instructed them to respond that Harley Dog and I would be delighted to attend.

(To those of you who are new to the "soothing balm of Johnism", I should tell you that "Harley", who I mentioned back a sentence ago (seems longer than that, doesn't it?) is the Harley Dog, the backup navigator onboard my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, which we call the RU Kidding for short, just a little "outer space" humor there, as well as being my sidekick and roommate. There's a picture of him to the right, I believe, yeah, right there --->.)

When the staff folks told me about the dedication, I didn't really pay any attention to the date, until a few days ago, when I was going through The Papal Appointment Book and I noticed that the ceremony was scheduled for 5610.00, and, just a parsec or two away from KrylonA42, where the dedication was taking place, was Lowawatha, where the LamaBall Finals were scheduled to begin 5910.00, just three days later. I backtracked and read the entry again...yep, 5610.00 on KA42, and then if I want, Pope on an atomic powered trampoline, quick jump to Lowawatha and the Finals.

The LamaBall Finals, which this year include MY team, the Terran Terminators, is the Galactic championship of the InterGalactic LamaBall Conference, which is headquartered on Lowawatha and is the official league and governing body for the sport of LamaBall.

(LamaBall is a hybrid sport, a combination of gerbil golf and polo, except that instead of hitting gerbils off a second floor balcony, as in normal gerbil golf, in LamaBall, which is played on a large field, two teams of riders mounted on Earth lamas, wielding large "bats" rather than various-length clubs, as in gerbil golf, attempt to strike the gerbils as they run alongside them, thus moving them downfield, as in polo, except that, to score a "goal", the gerbil has to be "putted" into a funnel-shaped hole in the ground, while the defenders attempt to stop the shot. Its an exciting game, and very fast-paced, although I suspect the gerbils aren't all that crazy about it.)

So this is cool, me, Harley and Mike, who is my consigliore, off on the Kidding and on the ground at Lowawatha for the Finals. (By the way, Mike is the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan, and no, not the one that played for North Carolina; Mike has been my "connie" since I became the AJATTWC Pope Dude.)

We're "wheels up" at dawn tomorrow.

(...the following week...)

What a great trip; the dedication was boring but the reception afterwards was pretty good, especially those dancers from Anopheles, whoa, and the Finals were awesome, although the shithead 'Nators lost in the second round, the punks, but all in all, we had a lotta' fun. At least I did; Harley spent most of the trip trying to make a move on a Krillion ebert; I think Harley may need to have his eyes checked.

I ran into an old friend at the dedication ceremony, the Torgar of Resorcin, Mott the Hoople, Jr.; I hadn't seen Hoop since the Girl Scout cookie fiasco a few years ago. We were swapping BS about this and that, and after about an hour of non-stop gross guy stuff, he looked at me and said, hey, I've got a good one for you...

...according to Hoop, and he swears this really happened, one of his SubTorgars, Mandal of Ladnam, had recently gotten himself a new pet, a Kaoliang parrot. Now, if you've never seen a Kaoliang parrot, let me describe one to you: they're large birds, with a rounded beak unlike the hooked beak of an Earth parrot, about .5 meters long and weighing around three kilos. They're mainly orange, with a brilliant dark green "comb" across their foreheads and occasionally dark green and dark maroon stripes across the wings. They have two great claims to fame: they can be taught to talk, and they have no legs. They stay on a perch by wrapping their, umm, johnsons around whatever they're perching on.

So Mandal goes out and gets himself a really nice Kaoliang parrot, takes it home and installs it on it's own perch in a well-lit corner of his wife's and his bedroom. His wife wasn't crazy about the bird, but Mandal was so pleased that she went along with it. Besides, she had other things on her mind, as Mandal learned some time later.

As SubTorgar, Mandal was required to be out of town frequently, and he thought the parrot, whom he named Mortimer, after his older sister, (Mandal's, not Mort's) would be some company to his wife, who spent most of the time he was gone alone. The owner of the pet shop where Mandal had gotten Mortimer had already taught it to speak Quonset, the language used on Resorcin, so the parrot would be able to speak and hold conversations with the Mrs. in Mandal's periodic absences.

Sounds like a plan, right?

So Mandal goes off on Resorcinianian business, and is gone for several days. According to Hoop, when he returned home, he walked into the house and did the usual, Honey, I'm Home thing and got no answer. Thinking his wife may be out on an errand, he went into the kitchen, expecting to find a note, because his wife had known he would be home around this time.

No note.

In the meantime, he can hear Mortimer back in the bedroom, whistling to himself. Shit, the bird can talk and see, maybe he knows where the wife went. So Mandal walks back to the bedroom, says hello to Mort and asks, hey, seen the wife?

Mort immediately begins to get a little agitated. Hey, he says to Mandal, your wife took off outta' here about two days ago, with a young Martian-looking guy in a big Mercedes GroundCruiser. What?, Mandal says.

"Yeah, this Martian-looking guy showed up here a few nights ago, had himself a bottle of champagne in his hand and lechery on his mind, yes sir."

"Whatta' ya' mean, 'lechery on his mind'? What happened?" Mandal demanded.

"Well," says Mortimer the Kaoliang parrot, "they was sittin' out in the living room, 'course I couldn't see them from back here in the bedroom, but I could hear them laughing and cuttin' up, no problem. They were giggling like kids, and hittin' that champagne pretty hard from the sounds of it." The parrot paused to catch his breath; he was starting to get a little worked up.

"So then what happened?" Mandal asked, raising his voice a little; he was starting to get a little worked up himself.

"Oh, well, I'm sittin' here mindin' my own business, when these two lovebirds come chargin' in the bedroom, laughing to beat all and carryin' on. Funny thing, they were both about half-naked; he had his shirt off and your Mrs. was down to her bra, her panties and pantyhose. Man, was that somethin' to see." By now the parrot is bobbing up and down on his perch with excitement; it probably didn't feel too bad either.

"Yeah, yeah?" says Mandal, in a slightly hysterical voice.

"Well, next thing I know, these two are on the bed, he's tryin' to pull off what's left of her clothes, all the while she's trying like hell to get his pants undone and down, and they're still laughin' like hyenas, and about the time they both get almost naked, Holy Porn Star, Batman, wow." The parrot stopped talking, leaned over to his water container on the perch beside him and took a long drink, coming up for air once or twice before he finished.

By now Mandal is beside himself, which is a really tough position to maintain for any length of time, and is practically screaming at the bird to go on with his story.

"Man, you wouldn't believe," the parrot said, gulping down the last swallow of water. "It was amazing. They settled down some and started kissing and rubbing each other all over, and then your Mrs. got on top of the Martian-looking guy, I couldn't exactly see what she was doing, but she was grindin' away, and then suddenly the guy flipped your Mrs. on her back, starts rubbin' her all over, and he gets up real close to her and climbs up on her , crawlin' like on his hands and knees and then he takes hold of her panties and starts pullin' them down, and he gets them down and, oh my god...". Mortimer was so excited he couldn't continue.

"What, what happened?" Mandal screamed again, and he reached out, grabbed the parrot and started shaking him. "Tell me what happened?!?"

"I don't know," Mortimer the Kaoliang parrot screamed back, "I got a hard-on and fell off my perch!"

My friend Mott the Hoople, Jr. swears that's a true story.

Love and parakeets,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

...And The Oscar Goes To...

Ring...ring...rin

"PJ...hey, Mike, sup?...yeah, I'm working on it right now...okay, its just a different type of writing from what I usually do...yeah, ha-ha, you're a regular laugh riot, you know that?...okay, gotta' run, gotta' get today's post up on the blog...yeah...hey, let's think about scheduling a "Guy's Night Out" pretty soon, maybe to Hooters, whatta' ya' say?...okay...cool."

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one who played at North Carolina); he was asking me how the writing on my new screenplay is going.

I was reading an article in the L.A. Times the other day, and the author mentioned a website called www.xtranormal.com; this is a site where you can create your own movie, animated of course, using your own characters and screenplay.

I checked it out, and it looks very interesting, and I figured, hey, I'm smart enough to be the Pope of the All John All The Time World Church, I should be bright enough to figure out how to do this; makes sense, right?

So I decided that I would create a short movie about myself and the Harley Dog (see picture <---, oops, sorry, --->), (FYI, Harley is the "official" canine of the AJATTWC, the back-up navigator onboard my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, or RU Kidding for short, as well as my roommate and best buddy), showing us doing our AJATTWC gig, maybe handling a spiritual emergency of some sort, you know, just introduce the "masses" to myself and the Church. Strictly informational.

You've seen these things; the opening scene shows some executive in a shirt and tie, sitting behind his big, important executive desk, reading over some incredibly important executive papers and frowning over what he's reading. As the camera pans in, the big important executive looks up, smiles, and then says, "Hi, I'm Gert Poopensnooter; I'm the president of Poopensnooter Industries. We're known in industry circles as the biggest bunch of cheating, wait, that's not was what was in the script, who made up these new cue cards?" You know, strictly informational.

I started writing a screenplay for my new movie; I don't even have a working title yet, probably because it isn't working yet, because I don't know dick about writing a screenplay. I don't know boobs or nay-nays about writing a screenplay, either, for that matter.

And that's where I need you folks, the loyal and dedicated followers of your Pope Guy and the AJATTWC, to help me with my screenplay, if you will. I need ideas.

I've got the first few pages written, roughly (ever driven your car down a back country road after it had rained the night before; yeah, rough), but at least it's a place to start.

So please do me and Harley a favor: read over what I've written so far, (see below), and then, if you have any and you don't mind sharing them, send me an email or write a comment in the "Comments" section (clever name, what?) with any ideas you might have about how I can continue and then finish my movie.

You know, I don't care what the Episcopalians say, I think you guys are all right.

Okay, here we go:

ACT I, SCENE I

Office scene, with the Pope, Harley Dog

Open with P sitting at desk, facing camera, 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 the 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 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 a "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 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 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 dissolves back to Pope's office, with Harley and the Pope,

That's it, that's as far as I got; any ideas?

I'm thinking that, if this turns out, I may be looking at an entirely new career, screenwriter, or director, or maybe the guy that guards the entrance gate at the studio, but this, this could be big, bigger than Stallone with "Rocky" or Spielberg with "Jaws". Imagine: "'Harley and Me', a short film about the everyday workings of the AJATTWC, and a brilliant examination of the interplay between a Pope and his dog. Now playing at theatres someplace."

But no "Thelma and Louise" endings, okay? I'm not putting HD in the front seat of the Popemobile and gunning it over the edge of the Grand Canyon. I don't need that much drama in my life; hey, I was married once, I know all about drama.

And of course I'll give whoever comes up with a great suggestion a "writer's credit" in the thingie they always show at the end of every movie with the names of all the people who stared and directed and wrote and made costumes and went to get sandwiches and were somehow essential to the making of that particular movie.

A real tiny credit, right at the end. (Hey, it's Hollywood, okay?)

Love and Oscars,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.