Butch Celery And The Peapod Kid

As leader of the All John All The Time World Church, I try to keep myself informed of health issues that could potentially impact the members of my church, (yeah, all one of them) things like the spread of the HIV virus, vaccination of children against childhood diseases, flu shots and many others. But the one health issue that has me, as Pope of the AJATTWC, very concerned is the intestinal growth of vegetables. It's insidious, and it's here amongst us.

I recently learned of this dreaded nightmare from an article I read somewhere on the 'Net, about a man who, after complaining of abdominal distress and while being examined at a local emergency room, was found to have a pea plant growing in his stomach. Doctors theorized that the man, a middle-aged man named Jack, had apparently somehow eaten a pea that had then germinated in his stomach, and sprouted a root and what appeared to be the beginning of a stem. (I just remembered, Jack's thing was a beanstalk, wasn't it? Oh well, I guess I blew that one. The rest of the story is true.)

Now, I don't know about you, but the idea that there may be vegetative matter growing in my intestines creeps the shit outta' me. It's gotten so bad that now, whenever I eat things like tomatoes, with all those little seeds in the middle, I scrape them all out before I eat them. I really like tomatoes; I cook with them, put them on sandwiches, in salads, I like them fried in chocolate, hey, I even eat them sliced as a side dish. But not before I scrape the seeds out, because the last thing on earth I want is to have to go to the emergency room and then try and explain to some doctor why I have three feet of tomato plant stem growing out of my asshole. (It's hard enough trying to explain having three nipples, one of which is in the middle of my forehead.) No, no more tomato seeds for Mrs. Pope's son.

Now, with all that said, if I thought that would work with marijuana plants, I might give it a go, you know, fire up a batch of brownies, leave a few seeds in, and start harvesting my nether regions about three months later. Think of the money I would save on buying...well, never mind that now. And besides, I know that would probably violate a number of rules of the AJATTWC, and as the Popester, well, we can't have that now can we? You know, lead by example, like Bill Clinton did.

I also don't eat fresh pumpkin, for the same reason. (I once worked for a guy who used to eat peanuts in the shell...whole. Yep, peanut and husk, right over the tongue and down the old shoot. Can you imagine how hard that must be, outbound, on your asshole?)

(Popephone rings...)

 

"...JTT...hey, Mike, how was your weekend?...you were at that game? Awesome...I'm sorry?...whatta' you mean I can't say "asshole? Why not?...hey, it's better than wazoo, and it's a whole lot better than Republican...I have to say 'anus'? Geez, that sounds wimpy as hell...(big sigh of capitulation here)...all right, I'll change it...yeah, you too...yeah...talk to you later."

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one who was in "Space Jam"); he tells me the Bored Of Elders of the AJATTWC says I that can't say anything about lake fishing in the winter, where its necessary to cut an icehole to gain access to the fish.

 

Geez. 

 

Okay, here's the "edited" version:

 

Can you imagine how hard that would be, outbound, on YOUR ANUS? (That's a planet, right?)

This PC stuff is getting a little absurd, you know that? Next thing you know, I won't be able to say "asparagus" for fear of offending some arugula farmer somewhere. (For the longest time I thought "arugula" was an island in the Caribbean, you know, like "Arugula, Jamaica, oooh, I want to take you...")

And, apropos of absolutely nothing, "Aniston" is not only the last name of one of the major hotties of all time, but it's also a city in eastern Alabama, I recently learned. (Somebody explain to me how a guy can dump someone as gorgeous as Jennifer Aniston, which would be, in most guy's opinion, a MAJOR dumb move, and then move right in with Angelina Jolie. NOBODY normal has that kind of luck. As Pope of the AJATTWC, I'm having Brad Pitt investigated for possible dealings with the Devil; in the movie version, the role of Satan will be played by Jack Nicholson, who is of course, well-known Lakers fan.) (Jack's a Lakers fan, not Satan; he's a Pistons fan.)

Rutabaga is a small town in Lower Zimbabwe, isn't it? No, wait, that's Arugula.

Love and peapods,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Living Alone, Talking To Yourself And Whale Weinies

Your Pope was going through some old papers the other day, and stumbled onto several "songs" that I had been working on, many years ago, back in the day when the muse was stronger in my life and I still believed I had undiscovered talent. (Nowadays, the muse is absent, or at least out sick, and I still believe I have undiscovered talent.) Reading through some of my unfinished masterpieces, I came to realize something: you're really pissed and stretching like crazy when you're writing a song about an ex-girlfriend and you're rhyming scheme is "piglet/cigarette"; I'm glad at some point I decided to pursue more enlightened endeavors.

Like being Pope of the All John All The Time World Church. That's right, music lovers, being the Pope Dude has been, so far, an enlightening experience, more so than, say, rolling tortillas, although I've never rolled a tortilla, so I really don't know that for certain. (I bet they don't roll near as well as gerbils on skateboards, or a cheese blintz.)

Yeah, so far, the whole thing has been a real learning experience; my staff has unearthed and forwarded to me stories and reports and articles on the damnedest subjects, like the four naked people that the cops found in the cab of a pick-up truck they had stopped for being "suspicious", (the truck, not the people; its hard to act suspicious when you're buck naked) or the roommates that got into a fight over Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies, or the bigamist in Grand Rapids MI who had a wife in RI AND a wife in MI, yeah, you could say we've found a few loose nuts out there that could use tightening down.

But that's not why I took the Pope gig; I took it so I could have the opportunity to preach the Gospel of Johnsim to the masses (that's you guys), an opportunity that I wouldn't have otherwise. Wait, I hear the Popephone ringing...

"PJTT...hey, Mike, 'sup?...no, I didn't hear about that...really...no shit...under the seat?...its almost a great idea, ya' know...hey, are we still on for Hooters tomorrow night?...great...yeah...okay, yeah, thanks."

That was the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one that owns the Charlotte Bobcats); he was telling me about an article he saw in yesterday's Times about a guy who got arrested down near San Diego in a wheelchair, posing as a disabled person. No, he didn't get arrested for impersonating a disabled person, with intent to commit mopery, he got arrested because the police found FIVE POUNDS of marijuana under the seat of his wheelchair that he was trying to smuggle into the United States at the border crossing at San Ysidro. Drug-smelling dogs tripped him up. (Just like in the movie "Up In Smoke"; remember the scene with the station-wagon full of nuns crossing the border back into the U.S. from Mexico?) (Why does the phrase "a station-wagon full of nuns" strike me as funny?)

"Hey, Pope Guy, is there a point coming up in the immediate future?"

Sorry, I got off-track.

I've noticed a number of things in my life recently that remind me that, like it or not, I'm single and live by myself, not including the Harley Dog. (For those of you who are new to my blog, Harley Dog is the "official" canine of the AJATTWC, and my roommate.) Its not like I had forgotten, or Dagon forbid that I want to be married again. (Dagon was the Amorite fertility god back in the time around 2000 B.C.; some of the more obscure sects of the AJATTWC still worship him today.) It's just that, occasionally, I suddenly remember that there are a number of differences between living by yourself and living with others. People, I mean, not orangutans.

Okay, an example: the other day I'm in the kitchen, getting myself a glass of soda. Items needed, a glass, ice cubes and soda. I already had a glass out, so I opened the freezer, took out the ice-cube tray (hey, this "pope" gig doesn't pay enough to be able to afford a 'fridge with an automatic ice thingie), and dropped a few cubes in my glass, only to realize that now, I had one ice-cube too many, meaning that either a) I could put the extra ice-cube in my glass, but then there would be too many, and that would mean less soda, or b) I would have to put the tray back in the freezer with just one cube in it or f) I could deep-six the extra cube and fill the tray with water, which would be the right way.

Now if you're living in a household with multiple folks, the answer to this dilemma is simple: put the tray back with the one, lonely ice-cube in it and let the next guy handle it. (This is called the "Pull Up The Ladder" theory of communal living; you use the ladder then pull it up behind you so the next guy can't.)

But the whole "living alone" thing comes crashing down on you in the above scenario; to wit, if you're the only person on the premises, there's no one else to fill the tray later. If you put that one, lonely little ice-cube, sitting forlornly in its cup in the ice-cube tray, back in the freezer, the next guy to reach for the tray will be...you again. Boy, there's a lose/lose rotation for you.

Shit.

Being an adult (Harley refuses to be, so I get the nod by default in this household), I tossed the lone ice-cube in the sink and filled the tray with water. (Large sigh of resignation here.) I hate being an adult; the responsibility is stifling.

The other thing I hate about living alone, and I know this is common, at least, I know two other people who admit to doing this besides me, but I talk to myself all the time. Out loud. (So far, it's been one-sided conversations only.) All the time.

And you know what the worst thing is? Sometimes, I get tired of the sound of my own voice. That's when you know you've been living alone too long.

So imagine my surprise when my staff found this article on the 'Net and forwarded it to me:

"Bizarre Iceland Museum Gets Donated Human Phallus".

(As you can obviously see, I have nothing but disdain for the common segue.)

According to a report by Raphael Satter for the Associated Press, Pall Arason, an elderly Icelandic resident, always strived for attention while he was living; in death, he got what he wanted: the 95-year-old Icelander's pickled penis will be the main attraction in one of his country's most bizarre museums.

"Sigurdur Hjartarson, who runs the Phallological Museum in the tiny Icelandic fishing town of Husavik, said Arason's organ will help round out the unusual institution's extensive collection of phalluses from whales, seals, bears and other mammals."

Interestingly, a number of other potential donors have pledged their "johnsons" to the museum, but Arason's is the first human penis to actually take up residence at the facility.

"'I have just been waiting for this guy for 15 years,' Hjartarson told The Associated Press in a brief telephone interview."

I'm sure Mr. Arason would be pleased with the attention and dedication he was shown by Mr. Hjartarson. (Obviously, these Icelandic folks never heard of the names Smith and Johnson.) (Another bad, although unintentional, pun.)

Well, won't you rest easier knowing that the Phallological (who comes up with these terms, anyway?) Museum now has a human exhibit to "round out" their display. (No mention was made in the article as to where in the hierarchy of size of various animal peni' the human member of Mr. Arason falls; I believe we're safe in assuming that, in the animal world, size doesn't matter, as long, pardon the pun again, as it works.)

"Highlights of the museum's collection include a 67-inch sperm whale penis preserved in formaldehyde, lampshades made from bull testicles and what the museum described as an 'unusually big' penis bone from a Canadian walrus."

And all I can think is I'm that really glad I'm not Mrs. Sperm Whale (speaking of bad puns, if there's a worse pun for this subject than "sperm whale", please someone tell me); SIXTY-SEVEN INCHES. Boy, (yeah, no doubt about this guy's gender), that's enough to make the stallions from Sunnybrook Farm drop their heads and turn back to the barn in shame. SIXTY-SEVEN INCHES long lying down is 5' 7" standing up, or slightly under the height of the average male human being. And I bet those bulls weren't too happy about the lampshade thing either.

I love living alone with HD; he thinks my silliness is great, but you can bet there's no woman in the world that would put up with gerbil golf off the balcony, dog farts and stories on the Internet about old guys that donate their schlongs to a museum.

Although Billy Ray Cyrus is married, so how hard can it be to find a woman with the IQ of a boysenberry plant who will tolerate a guy and his "eccentricities"? (Hey, at least I haven't willed my penis to a museum in Iceland. Yet.)

Okay, gotta' run; I need to fill some ice-cube trays and finish writing a song about my ex- that I started the other day; its called "You Broke My Heart So I Busted Your Jaw". Its all about unrequited love and why men are jerks because they never put the seat back down, although why anyone would sit down on a toilet without looking first is beyond me.

Probably something to do with living alone and talking to yourself.

Love and hermits,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Reefer Madness_Part II

As your favorite Pope Guy, which isn't much of a distinction, given that I'm probably your ONLY Pope Guy, I find it lends credence to my leadership of the All John All The Time World Church when I share with my followers stories and anecdotes of my personal life, making me seem more human and more accessible to those to whom I have become something of an authority figure. (That and it gives me a lot of material for my silliness.)

If you didn't read my post from yesterday, 2/21, where I started to chronicle for you a day in the life of an apprentice meat-cutter stoned on marijuana, you might want to go back and do so, because it will give you a beginning point and a frame of reference for today's post. (Go ahead, I'll wait....)

...okay, glad you're back.

Picking up the narrative where I left off previously, (..."when we last saw our hero"...), Bruce, Jack, Chris and myself, well into the throes of being really "annihilated", left the hotdog place after finishing lunch and returned to the store to continue our workday; easier said than done, however, as we all learned when we got back.

Now we were all just barely past being kids, but we weren't stupid; both Jack and I were married guys with families, and Chris and Bruce were using the money they made working at the store to fund their college educations, so none of us could afford the luxury of losing a job for using drugs. (I would suspect having that on your resume would make employment interviews very difficult.) So when we got into the parking lot of the store and got out of Bruce's car, Jack, the unacknowledged leader of our little band, cautioned everyone to "be cool and act straight", and then started giggling. We all nodded our understanding, and then joined him in his laughter.

As I explained in yesterday's "chapter", the meat counter in the store where we worked was the old-fashioned type, complete with number dispenser and clock-like thingies on the wall to indicate which number we were "Now Serving". We all donned our aprons and those repulsive little paper hats we always wore, and went to work.

Of course the first problem we encountered was sharp implements; lots of them. Hey, it was a "butcher shop", to use the parlance, complete with boning knives, "butcher" knives, several bandsaws and a couple of serious-looking lunch meat slicers, which, by the way, scared me then and still scare the hell out of me today. Ever see of these monsters up close in a deli or sandwich shop? Imagine a 12" circular scalpel, rotating at about 5000 RPMs, over which you're passing a chunk of bologna or salami back and forth. Within millimeters of your fingers. (I'm literally getting the chills as I write this. God, I really hated those things.) And cleaning one of these diabolical machines was enough to give anyone nightmares, because at least when you were using them, they had "guards" that provided some protection. Once you took one apart for cleaning, there was that razor-edged blade, which had to be pulled, very carefully and delicately, from the machine and washed, by hand, in a sink. Not a fun duty, by any means. Yeah, your local grocery store Meat Department can be a very dangerous place any time, but particularly so when you're under the influence of some really good "smoke". (As I said yesterday, looking back, this had to be one of the MOST stupid things I have ever done.)

The other problem we faced was customers, and maintaining some semblance of normalcy, not an easy thing to do in our respective conditions. Ernie, one of the younger "journeyman", became aware that we were all giggling like schoolgirls and trying to hide the fact, and got suspicious, but Ernie was mostly a dipstick, so I don't think he ever figured out what was going on. (Ernie had an interesting trait; he was Italian, and I don't know what his daily diet was, but the man was afflicted with the most awful flatulence to which I have ever been exposed; he was brutal. And since he found his "affliction" humorous, he thought dropping "bombs" all over the department was hilarious, a point of view that the rest of us did not share. I'll never forget the time that Ralph, the department manager and a rather fastidious, prissy kind of a guy for a butcher, unwittingly followed Ernie into the men's room, just after Ernie had visited same for his daily, just after lunch, BM. We all knew not to follow Ernie in there, but Ralph had been doing something in back and hadn't seen Ernie go and come back; we were all watching for Ralph when he returned, anxious to see his reaction, Ralph being given to occasional bouts of melodrama, and he didn't disappoint us. He stopped in front of the first cutting block he came to, leaned over, supporting himself with his hands and began shaking his head and muttering, "My God, the guy is sick, nothing alive should smell that bad", which of course we all thought was pretty funny. Ralph did not share our concept of what was humorous.) (Ralph also was the possessor of a glass left eye, true story, to replace his real left eye, and he had never confided to anyone that I know of how the eye had been lost. If he was talking to several of us at a time, it was real tough to know specifically to whom he was giving directions; his good eye would look right at you, but the other one might be looking at you, or maybe at whoever was standing next to you. It could be very disconcerting.)

The very first customer I waited on when I called "35", or whatever, was ALL the way down at the far end of the counter from where I was standing and calling; the meat counter, being the better part of 50 feet in length, and my condition, made it something of a journey to get there. I walked down, asked the nice lady with the winning number what I could get for her, and she asked me for a pound of ground chuck. Easy enough. The ground chuck tray was about in the middle of the counter. So I turned, started away, got most of the way down to where I was going, and forgot what the lady wanted. (Remember, I'm deep in the throes of "reefer madness" at this point; simple actions like, say, breathing, required serious thought.) So I turned, walked back, and asked the nice lady to repeat her order, which she did. So I turned away again, intent on not forgetting this time, got all the way down to the far end of the counter, totally blowing right past the ground chuck tray because, once again, I had forgotten what the customer had asked for.

Somehow Bruce caught on to the fact that I was having a problem, and as I'm standing there, desperately trying to simultaneously remember what I had forgotten and to not appear foolish, he's poking Jack in the ribs and nodding at me as they're standing next to each other, wrapping the purchases of their customers in that white butcher paper that every butcher shop in the world used to use, and making fun of me. Assholes.

Well, since I couldn't remember what the lady wanted, again, there was nothing for it but to walk all the way back down the length of the counter, and ask her again. Fortunately for me, the nice lady customer in question was one of our "regulars", so I knew her well, and further fortunately, she knew and seemed to like me, so she just laughed a little and made some teasing remark about my faulty memory. Little did she know.

I was finally able to complete her order, and managed to get through the next half-hour or so, when the high watermark event of the afternoon took place. Thankfully, it was Chris this time that stepped on his johnson, not me.

Ralph, the same Ralph whose olfactory nerves had been so badly offended by Ernie's after-lunch bowel movement, had lent Chris his personal boning knife briefly, to cut something for a customer. While this was happening, Ernie had gone into the back cutting room to get a special order that had come in for a customer: a beef heart. He came out and left the beef heart sitting on the cutting block where Chris had just used Ralph's knife a moment before, and returned to the cooler for something else for his customer. When Ralph asked Chris where he had left his knife, Chris, busy with his customer, without turning, answered, "It's down there", and pointed vaguely, not being very specific.

"Where?", Ralph asked rather stridently, getting a little miffed. (He really hated it when one of us used his knife and didn't put it back where it belonged.)

So Chris, trying to juggle three things, listening to what his customer was saying, being seriously baked and attempting to answer Ralph, all at the same time, turned and announced, in a loud voice that was heard all over the department, including by most of the large group of customers standing on the other side of the meat case, "Down there, on the block with the heart on it", said block being in clear view of everyone.

Now he may have done it on purpose, or not, but when Chris made his loud answer, the word "it" didn't really come out of his mouth clearly; if you consider the sentence without the final preposition, well, you can imagine the reaction from everyone behind and at the counter.

Jack, Bruce and I, all being well within earshot, lost it. Ralph, standing just to the side of the cooler door, turned an interesting shade of red, his good eye watering vigorously while the other one wandered about, looking for a culprit. Several of the customers at the counter were laughing, but there were a couple of little old lady types who were quite shocked, to say the least.

And about this time, Ernie the smelly dipstick came out of the cooler and looked around at the commotion and inquired, with a befuddled look, "What are you guys laughing at?", which of course struck us all as even more hilarious, and we started laughing even harder. But here's the absolute topper of them all; as Ernie had come through the cooler door, this horrible stench wafted out with him, almost directly into Ralph's face.

I'm not sure, because you couldn't tell with all of us wearing aprons, but Jack was laughing so hard I think he might have piddled himself a little.

I won't tell you that your Pope and his friends never got stoned on their Saturday lunch hour ever again, subsequent to that fateful day, but I will tell you that we were a lot more careful after that.

And Ralph was equally careful to never follow Ernie into the men's room, ever again.

Good thing his glass eye didn't water.

Love and chicken breasts,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Reefer Madness

Way back in the late '70s, in my pre-Pope days, long before the All John All The Time World Church was established, I was a married guy with a family (me, the -ex and my beautiful daughter, Hezakiah, who we called Fred), working as an apprentice meat-cutter in a local grocery store in the suburbs of Chicago. (I'm not going to say where exactly, or use the name of the store, although the business is no longer there, because the family of the people who owned the store is still around, and discretion is the better part of pickle relish.) I was a young guy making my way through the world, taking care of my family and trying to get it right, and succeeding at least some of the time.

Now the company I worked for as an apprentice meat-guy (this was OJT, orange juice taster, err, on the job training) was an independent grocer, renowned for their fresh produce and meats. The store was probably 30,000 square feet, medium-sized by today's chain-store standards, and fully 30% of that was the produce department, and our produce brought people in from literally all over the county. Every morning around 3:00am, one the owners would take the store truck up to the "Market" in Chicago and come back with a load of fresh, just off the farm, fruits and vegetables, and this was WAY before the whole all-natural, organic thing that is all the vogue these days. In fact, the store had been started by the father of the then owners, as a farm-stand to sell produce his family grew right there on a 10 acre plot of land on which they eventually built the store. That was the good thing about the place, among a few others. The bad thing was that the people that owned it were a bunch of assholes to work for, but I was in the union, the pay was decent, the raises determined by our contract and it could have been worse. And I didn't have the great Pope gig I have today back then.

Besides the outstanding produce department, the other feature of the market was an old-fashioned, full-service meat counter. Remember those; you walked up to the counter, which was fully 50 feet in length, pulled a number out of the dispenser, (you know, the gizmo that looks like its sticking it's tongue out at you) checked out the clock-looking thingies on the wall that showed what number was being waited on at that moment, and then stepped up and told the "butcher" what you wanted when he called out "26", or whatever number you had. (Think Whole Foods meat counters, but a lot earthier somehow; and FYI, if your number was, say, "14" and we called "26", you couldn't walk up to the counter and order; it was kind of a rule we had.) The official union designation was "meat-cutter", but the older guys, the "journeymen", were butchers.

I was the only apprentice, and I got the gig by virtue of playing in a rock n' roll band with two of the sons of the owners, who apparently felt sorry enough for me to let me work there. The sons were good guys, just fair musicians, but we were friends and we had a lot of fun together. Their fathers...not so much. As the only apprentice, I mostly waited on trade, and did little actual meat-cutting; however, I still managed, over the four years I worked there, to, at various times, put six stitches in back of my left index finger, almost sliced off the end of the ring-finger of my left hand (can you tell I'm right-handed?) on a bandsaw, requiring another six stitches, as well as inflict any number of minor cuts to myself as well, including one on my right thigh with a boxcutter, opening a box of canned hams. (This is also the job I was working at when I had my vasectomy; all of above events were lessons that taught me a healthy respect for sharp instruments.)

One of my co-workers in the department was a guy my age named Jack, who had worked at a chain store in the area previously and had gotten his journeyman card there; Jack was ostensibly in charge of my training, being the youngest journeyman in the department. (Jack's favorite comment to me, when he'd see me standing in one spot, confused, was "John, do something, even if it's wrong.") Like most professions, I imagine, we had our own group of "inside jokes"; I remember hearing one of the older guys tell a lady one day that butchers ground their mistakes and doctors buried theirs. (I came up with a good one myself when I broke my finger playing softball and had to work wearing a small cast; when a lady asked me how I had injured myself, I replied, "Well, I really can't tell you, but don't buy the ground chuck today.") The worst of all was the day I heard one of the owner's sons, (not one of my friends) who helped out behind the counter occasionally, tell a young lady, who had enquired as to how someone would prepare beef kidneys, which really aren't meant for human consumption but are usually used as pet food, that "you take them and boil the piss out of them". The fathers weren't the only assholes in the families.

The only other "young guys" in the department, other than Jack and I, were two part-time college kids, Bruce and Chris, who worked a few nights a week and on Saturdays, our busiest day. (Personal note here: I haven't seen Jack, Bruce or Chris in over 30 years and I have no idea what became of any of them, but I hope they're all well and doing fine; good men all.) Since all of us were at the low end of the seniority ladder, it was this crew of guys that stayed late on Saturdays, after the store closed, to pull the meat case completely apart and clean it, with hoses and brushes, and other similar fun jobs. (The first time I pulled this duty, as I was leaning into the case as far as I could to clean the front glass, my butt sticking out and up, Bruce walked up behind me, stuck the nozzle of the hose in my back pocket and let'er rip. Fully initiated, and really wet, I was welcomed to the club.)

Since we had the Saturday evening clean-up duty, and worked later than the other guys, we took our lunch break after all the journeyman had returned from theirs, usually at 1:00pm, and we fell into a habit that, looking back on it now, had to be one the most stupid things I have ever done in my life. We'd all punch out, walk out to the car of whoever was driving that day, fire up a doobie and then go get something to eat.

Now a little background for those of you who have never "toked up"; this was the late '70s, and marijuana in those days, especially in the Midwest, so far from the source, could be wildly erratic in quality. Some was good, some was lousy, and some, like the stuff that Bruce brought the fateful day I'm going to tell you about, was killer. (I'm reminded of the scene in the movie "Up In Smoke", where the bass player for Cheech and Chong's band walked into the living room from the kitchen with a box of cereal in his hand, after they had all partaken, and remarked, laughing, "I'm annihilated.") On this particular Saturday afternoon in question, we got "annihilated".

The other piece of background info I'm going to share is this; the stories you hear about how marijuana makes you laugh uncontrollably (although nothing like in the movie "Reefer Madness") and gives you a case of the "munchies" are completely...true.

So we passed a joint around as we pulled out of the parking lot of the store, Bruce behind the wheel of his VW Bug, headed for a hotdog place just down the street about four blocks. To give you an indication of the "quality" of what we were smoking, although I can't speak for the others, by the time we got there, I was baked. Four blocks.

Deciding that we weren't likely to get service sitting in the car, we entered the hotdog establishment and sauntered up to the counter. Now some people are able to "maintain" when they're stoned; I, unfortunately, am not one of them. Chris and I went to one line, and Jack and Bruce another. Chris ordered, got his food, paid and then waited for me; I ordered, no mean feat by this juncture, got my food and proceeded to a table. Sadly, there was the small detail of paying for my order, which I had neglected to do. When the older lady behind the counter loudly pointed out this fact, I returned, giggling, and gave her what I owed her. Although she didn't say as much, the look on her face said that she was sure I was the supreme asshole of the universe. That, of course, only made me laugh harder.

We sat at a picnic table-like setting, with Jack and Bruce inside by the wall and Chris and I opposite each other on the end by the aisle. As we were eating, and still laughing foolishly, a young man approached our table and, clapping me on the back, said hello and asked how I was doing. He obviously knew me, for he mentioned something about a mutual friend. Unfortunately, I hadn't the slightest who he was, but I didn't care to admit it to him, in my diminished state, nor to be rude, so I just played along, nodding at what I hoped were the right places and answering in monosyllables, still giggling quietly (I think) to myself. After a few moments of one-sided conversation, with my side batting zero, the young man told me to take it easy and left. I thought he had walked out of the shop, but no, he merely took a table directly behind me, and of course couldn't help but hear when I loudly announced to Chris that I had absolutely no idea who he was. Jack and Bruce thought this hysterical, but Chris was still had sufficient wits about him to furrow his brow and motion with his hotdog behind me, so, surprisingly, I shut up; it wasn't until we were leaving however, that I figured out what he had been warning me about, when I stood up and noticed my still unidentified friend sitting at the next table, looking at me like he agreed with the counter lady that I was the supreme asshole of the universe. I slunk from the place, abject in my embarrassment, but only for a moment, because by the time we hit the lot, we were all laughing like proverbial hyenas again.

Tell you what: I've gone on long enough for today, but there's more to this story, so I'll pick up the thread in tomorrow's post.

I'd be ashamed of myself if I had the requisite smarts to do so.

Until tomorrow...

Love and rump roasts,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Butch Celery And The Peapod Kid

As leader of the All John All The Time World Church, I try to keep myself informed of health issues that could potentially impact the members of my church, (yeah, all one of them) things like the spread of the HIV virus, vaccination of children against childhood diseases, flu shots and many others. But the one health issue that has me, as Pope of the AJATTWC, really concerned is the intestinal growth of vegetables. It's insidious, and it's here amongst us.

I recently learned of this dreaded nightmare from an article I read somewhere on the 'Net, about a man who, after complaining of abdominal distress and while being examined at a local emergency room, was found to have a pea plant growing in his stomach. Doctors theorized that the man, a middle-aged man named Jack, had apparently somehow eaten a pea that had then germinated in his stomach, and sprouted a root and what appeared to be the beginning of a stem. (I just remembered, Jack's thing was a beanstalk, wasn't it? Oh well, I guess I blew that one. The rest of the story is true.)

Now, I don't know about you, but the idea that there may be vegetative matter growing in my intestines creeps the shit outta' me. It's gotten so bad that now, whenever I eat things like tomatoes, with all those little seeds in the middle, I scrape them all out before I eat them. I really like tomatoes; I cook with them, put them on sandwiches, in salads, I even eat them sliced as a side dish. But not before I scrape the seeds out, because the last thing I want to have to do is go to the emergency room and try and explain to some doctor why I have three feet of tomato plant stem growing out of my asshole. (It's hard enough trying to explain having three nipples, one of which is in the middle of my forehead.) No, no more tomato seeds for Mrs. Pope's son.

Now, with all that said, if I thought that would work with marijuana plants, I might give it a go, you know, fire up a batch of brownies, leave a few seeds in, and start harvesting my nether regions about three months later. Think of the money I would save on buying...well, never mind that now. And besides, I know that would probably violate a number of rules of the AJATTWC, and as the Popester, well, we can't have that now can we? You know, lead by example, like Bill Clinton did.

I also don't eat fresh pumpkin, for the same reason. (I once worked for a guy who used to eat peanuts in the shell...whole. Yep, peanut and husk, right over the tongue and down the old shoot. Can you imagine how hard that would be, outbound, on your asshole?)

(Popephone rings...JTT...hey, Mike, how was your weekend?...you were at that game? Awesome...whatta' you mean I can't say "asshole? Why not?...hey, it's better than wazoo, and it's a whole lot better than Republican...I have to say 'anus'? Geez, that sounds wimpy as hell...(big sigh)...all right, I'll change it...yeah, you too...

Can you imagine how hard that would be, outbound, on YOUR ANUS? (That's a planet, right?)

This PC stuff is getting a little absurd, you know that? Next thing you know, I won't be able to say "asparagus" for fear of offending some arugula farmer somewhere. (For the longest time I thought "arugula" was an island in the Caribbean, you know, like "Arugula, Jamaica, oooh, I want to take you...")

And, apropos of absolutely nothing, "Anniston" is not only the last name of one of the major hotties of all time, but it's also a city in eastern Alabama. (Somebody explain to me how a guy can dump someone as gorgeous as Jen, which would be, in most guy's opinion, a MAJOR dumb move, and then move right in with Angelina. NOBODY normal has that kind of luck. As Pope of the AJATTWC, I'm having Brad Pitt investigated for possible dealings with the Devil; in the movie version, the role of Satan will be played by Jack Nicholson, well-known Laker fan.)

Rutabaga is a small town in Lower Zimbabwe, isn't it? No, wait, that's Arugula.

Love and peapods,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.