It's The Little Old Lady From Pasa, Err, Loudon NH

Now I don't want any of you to look at the picture above until...I said DON'T look, you gooses...well, it's just too late now, isn't it?

Since all of you already looked, even though I asked you all not to, as punishment, I'm not going to tell you about the picture until later in this post. You couldn't behave, so now you'll just have to wait.

***AND NOW, THE 2011 WINNER OF THE O. HENRY SHORT STORY AWARD***

"Once upon a time, there was a Pope Guy named John The Tall, and he was the Popeamundo for the All John All The Time World Church. He's the one writing this essay.

The end."

Okay, it's a real short story, much like the list of appearances in the World Series by the Chicago Cubs. Or like the length of time the Lakers spent in the playoffs this year.

But the real story here today is getting old, well, the story isn't getting old, it's ABOUT getting old, a subject with which I am well acquainted. Too well, in fact, for my money, although, considering the alternative, I guess I can take getting old.

As I suspect was the case with most of you, I was a) very young and b) very naked when I was born, or so I'm told, since my recollection of the whole experience is vague. Given that we only actively use about 10% of our brain capacity, with the Washington and Hollywood crowds working on closer to -62% of theirs, I've often wondered if somewhere, back in the deep, hidden recesses of our brains, that there aren't memories, maybe even vivid memories, of every moment in our lives, our birth, our first meal, our first step, the first time we puked after being overserved by some inconsiderate bartender, everything we've ever done as a person, stored away in some kind of organic hard-drive that we've just never learned to access properly.

Anyway, I'm getting old; I hit ** on my last birthday, back in February, and all of a sudden, it seems like I'm in the fast lane to Forest Lawn. (For you non-Southern California types, Forest Lawn is a HUGE local cemetery, with all sorts of tacky advertising and celebrity "residents" and has been the subject of all kinds of SoCal insider jokes for years.) I have never in my life been more aware of my own mortality then I have been recently. I wouldn't say that it's gotten to the point of fixation, but it's become a common theme in my nightly assessment of my life and my activities. (After I reread that last sentence, I realized that it sounded a lot more introspective than I intended. Or that I'm capable of, for that matter.)

I come from a long line of old people, on both sides. Shit, if my family were trees, we'd have a boatload of those internal rings scientists use to determine a tree's age on us, believe me. Three out of four of my grandparents made it into their 90's (other than my paternal granddad, who took the last, long step in his mid-60's; according to the death report, he died of a heart attack, but I knew my grandmother well, and I'm pretty sure the real story is that Grandpa bailed out to get away from her), I have a number of aunts and uncles who are in or have made it into their late-80's or early 90's, my dad was almost 89 when he passed away and the best one of all is my mother, who is still alive and ornery as ever (and still living by herself) at the ripe old age of 96.

I've become preoccupied with my age, and isn't it interesting that so many of us become preoccupied with our age when our preoccupation with sex starts to wane, although mine hasn't, even if I have slowed down some. Yeah, I don't think about sex NEAR as much as I used to, no more than 3 or 4 hundred times a day, compared to THOUSANDS of times a day when I was younger and could still do more than just think about it. (The proverbial "they" claim that sex is just like riding a bike; once you learn how to do it, you should have a complete understanding of nuclear physics, ah, sorry, you never forget how, and I'm praying that's true, because I'd hate like hell to FINALLY get lucky, and then, at the most critical moment, forget what goes where. A good friend of mine once told me he thought it was pretty much "insert Tab A into Slot B" and proceed accordingly. Hell, even I can't screw that up too bad, and I could screw up a two-house paper route.)

So what does all this have to do with the AJATTWC and your good Pope John?

Not a damn thing, but I needed something to lead into my main story, which is coming up next, so ease up, okay? Geez.

So, ever wonder what you'd like to do to celebrate your 100th birthday? No, I haven't either, but Rachel Gilbert, who recently celebrated her centennial, was given a hell of a gift by her family on hers: a chance to hit 100 again, this time on the racetrack at Loudon NH behind the wheel of a NASCAR vehicle. Interestingly, according to the report from NewsCore, Gilbert gave up her driver's license back in 1995, so had to be driven to the track by her family, who arranged the entire event with track officials. Not that she has much business driving around at 100 anyway, either age or MPH.

After whizzing around the course for several laps, Ms. Gilbert pulled into the infield and did several doughnuts, and then brought'er into the pits, then after shuttin' her down and wriggling out of the driver's side window, she received a birthday card, a NASCAR jacket autographed by her favorite driver, Carl Edwards, and a magnum of champagne roughly the size of Cleveland, which she proceeded to chug down until she passed out and was then carried from the pit area, laughing maniacally and muttering that she could drive rings around Jeff Gordon any day.

You gotta' love this old broad, and I say that in the most respectful way possible.

I once outraged my beautiful daughter, Hiram, (which, by the way, is quite common; I outage her on a fairly regular basis), by telling her that I wanted die at 90, in bed naked with a 21-year old blond with enormous hands. On the downstroke.

Okay, at 90, the sex probably won't be great, but it might be enough to make all those years of struggle to get that far worthwhile; hey, Rachel Gilbert got to hit the century mark in a hot car on her 100th, so why not, right? Stranger things have happened.

And don't tell me they haven't, okay, because I know better. Want me to prove it?

The citizens of this country elected George W. Bush to be President of our country.

Twice.

In both instances, Bush did well with the "over 60" demographic, which would lead one to believe that, in a lot of instances, getting older might make you a little crazy (see above) but it doesn't necessarily make you any smarter.

Or in my case any better looking.

Love and Geritol,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

...From The Departments Of Departments (Again)...

Let me start off by saying that I lied, although it was inadvertent.

Last Friday, 3/11/11, I posted my daily entry to my blog, "...from the desk of Pope John The Tall...", in which I made the earth-shaking announcement that I was taking a few days off and that I would return on Monday, 3/14/11, with a new "post" for that day.

Well, 3/14 came and went, like the proverbial back-door man, and no new "essay"; at least I provided everyone with a repost of an older piece that I wrote back in late January, which by the standards of writing a "daily" blog seems like a lifetime ago. Then came Tuesday and Wednesday and STILL nothing new; I know people all over the country were asking themselves, "Selves, what's up with the Pope? Is he dead? Is he suffering from diarrhea of the mouth and constipation of the ideas? (Wouldn't that qualify me to be a politician?) Will our hero be able to get to Little Nell in time to save her life, as she lies, helpless, tied across the railroad tracks as the 747 moves slowly towards her down the runway? Tune in next week for another edition of "Super Pope: Defender Of Justice And Designated Tall Person".

No, the truth is I just needed a few days break from the "burden" of being witty and entertaining every day. I never realized the pressure of "having" to write, rather than just writing something whenever I felt like it. (Now I know how a male prostitute feels; you MUST get it up, and it MUST work when called upon. "...with the count now 0 and 2 on the Pope...")

So between the time Harley and I were gone on our various trips to far-flung places, (Harley would be the Harley Dog, "official" canine of the Pope of the All John All The Time World Church; see picture to right -->), and then the short sabbatical I took, I haven't had an opportunity to check with my department "heads" to see what's shakin' in the world at large in the past several days. Based on the reports I received; quite a lot apparently:

From the Baked 'Gator Is A Delicacy In Some Countries Department- Narcotics agents from the State of California, the state that gave the country the "Governator", Arnold Schwarzenhooten, amongst other stupid things, made a somewhat startling discovery recently when they raided a "pot-house" in Hemet CA; the owners of the home, which was filled to the rafters with mature marijuana plants and seedlings, decided that a guard dog wasn't enough fire-power, so to speak, and instead installed in the house a 50-pound American alligator as their guard-animal of choice.

            Upon discovering the unusual "watchdog", authorities called in experts from the Forever Wild Exotic Animal Sanctuary to remove the beast; according to Joel Almquist, co-owner of FWEAS, the 'gator "wasn’t aggressive at all....this guy was just very, very mellow."

            ...hmmm, I wonder if that would work on Tea-Partyers...?

From the Will She Get Credit For Having The Right Intentions? Department- a 33-year-old mother in Fort Pierce FL was out with her boyfriend, 10-year-old daughter and 8-year-old son, giving the daughter driving lessons, when the mom and the boyfriend decided to stop and have a few brewskis, apparently having worked up a thirst with all that "driver's ed" stuff. According to TCPalm.com, after imbibing a number of tall, cold ones, the mother, Audrey Willoughby, apparently decided that she and the boyfriend were "a little too tipsy to drive", and gave the keys of her car to her 10-year-old, aspiring-to-be-an-automobile-operator daughter, to get the family home safely as the "designated driver". Everything was fine until the daughter started to actually drive; according to police reports, within "seconds" of pulling away from the curb where they were parked, the little girl hit one moving vehicle and then two that were parked, and in a panic to get the car stopped after smackng into her last auto, the child hit the accelerator, rather than the brake, and plowed into the side of a house. According to the District Attorney's office,  "Willoughby won't get more than 18 months in prison under the plea agreement".

            In the meantime, the daughter has been approached by Dale Earnhardt, Jr.'s NASCAR organization as a potential future driver for the team.

From the Who's Confused? Department- for the longest time when I would hear someone refer to the social-messengering service Twitter, I thought I was hearing the word "tweeter", (which of course is how the individual messages are referred to, as "tweets"), and I couldn't figure out why so many people were suddenly interested in the small, round speakers that reproduce the very high frequencies in an audio speaker cabinet. (They're in the door of your car as well; little round guys, like two-three inches across.) I finally got it that the world was talking about "Twitter", and not "tweeter", and I was vastly relieved.

            But then I started doing this stream-of-consciousness thing, and went from "Twitter" to "tweeter" to thinking that if you combined those words with a child's playground toy, you'd have...wait for it..."Twitter, tweeter, teeter, totter".

            I'll bet you 5 bucks the designated driver lady couldn't say that three times real fast with a half-a-dozen cold ones in her.

From the Pentagon Weapons-Testing Program Department- purveyor of "DIY Kits+Tools+Books+Fun" Maker Shed has come up with a kit to combine Diet Coke and Mentos, the breath mint, to "....recreate the Internet sensation in your own backyard! Fresh from their performance at Maker Faire, the guys at EepyBird hand-crafted replica PVC nozzles just like the ones they use themselves. Each kit contains a variety of nozzle cuts to give you the coolest, highest shooting geysers. We'll even throw in a pack of Mentos to get you started (Diet Coke not included)."

            Now I was unaware of the fact that if you combine Mentos with Diet Coke, (and shake vigorously, I would assume, although that inspired a vision of all sorts of people in America, standing in their kitchens in their baggy sweats and bunny slippers, putting a handful of Mentos into a 2-liter bottle of Diet Coke, and then shaking their arms, legs and torso around in mad abandon, and then wondering why the bottle of Diet Coke/Mentos is still just sitting there on the counter), that there would be an adverse reaction. (Gotta love the folks at Maker Shed and their hyperbole: "Each kit contains a variety of nozzle cuts to give you the coolest, highest shooting geysers", which I thought for a moment was a bunch of senior citizens with guns, firing them into the sky, but then I realized the word was "geysers", not "geezers"). Anyway, having never combined these two products, I was blissfully ignorant of the, again I would assume this, fact that the unintentional result of the mixing of two such elemental forces of nature would produce these "geezers", err, sorry, "geysers".

            Sean Fallon, the correspondent for MSN.com's Technolog feature who filed this report, suggested in the article not to "...forget to wear your goggles because I'm sure that Coke isn't nearly as refreshing when it's shot in your eyeballs at high velocity".

            Wouldn't this make a great high-speed douche?

From the Scraping The Bottom Of The Gene Pool Department- a group of geniuses that call themselves CyberGuys have recently introduced a new product that makes you wonder if it's humanly possible for people to get any more stupid.

            The "Wheelmate Laptop Steering Wheel Desk" is now being marketed on Amazon.com as the perfect complementary product for that busy driver on your gift list who needs another moronic excuse to not pay attention while operating a motor vehicle. That's right, sports fans, for a mere $24.95 (shipping and handling not included), you can obtain one of these handy-dandy little devices, and improve your driving-time work product tremendously. (Think I'm kidding? Check this out: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000IZGIA8?ie=UTF8&tag=craziestgcom-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B000IZGIA8.)

            The best thing about this article was reading the "product reviews" on Amazon from people who have actually bought and used this item. One from "Bob Dobbs" I am going to use in its entirety (which I hope is all right with Mr. Dobbs and the Amazon people):

            "I read some 4 and 5 star reviews by those who used this device successfully to change a baby while driving. On that basis, I bought one. I put my baby on it and drove for over an hour. It did not change. Same baby. I am glad it worked for some people but I will be returning mine. (The steering wheel desk, not the baby.)" (This guy Dobbs and I share a similar warped sense of humor.)

            Stupidity, thy name is human being.

From the Pentagon Weapons-Testing Program Department_Part Two- in an article entitled "Rubber Band Gatling Gun Protects Ft. Cubicle", GadgetsAndGear.com introduced a weapon of such awe-inspiring and fear-inducing proportions that words seem almost inadequate to portray the emotions raised by this frightening piece of office ordnance. (FYI, the "gatling gun" was the multi-barreled precursor of the modern machine gun, and was invented back in the 1860s by a man named Dr. Richard J. Gatling; Dr. Gatling went on to invent the rubber band a number of years later.)

            The Rubber Band Gatling Gun is made of solid billet aluminum, (did you know that the word "aluminum" is "munimula" backwards?), and is capable of being operated in either single-shot mode or a terrifying barrage of #64 rubber bands "as fast as you can crank them" mode, at the user's discretion. (GadgetsAndGear.com says that a "longer" barrel may be substituted "upon request", to provide for firing longer, larger rubber bands, I assume to inflict more punishment on the enemy.)

            I just want to know how the HR people will write up the injury report for the insurance company: "Subject employee sustained an eye injury while on a reconnaissance mission to determine enemy troop strength; employee was struck in the face with a fast-moving #64 rubber band while crawling out from behind a desk."

            There is no mandatory waiting period when purchasing the Rubber Band Gatling Gun.

Its hard for me to imagine that there are people out there in the big world that actually make my ex-in-laws look like Einsteins, until I read a few of the above...

Love and departmental memos,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.