Having Siblings, And Other Non-Curable Diseases

Since there is no prohibition against it in the canon law of the All John All The Time World Church (would you use a canon law to shoot a lawyer?), I have siblings.

And as far as I know, there's no known cure. Other than being born an only child.

Having siblings, I suspect, isn't as bad as having, say, herpes Simplex MLXRY2K, but it may be close. The biggest similarity is probably the inability to treat either one effectively with any drugs known currently.

I have an older brother and an older sister; my brother is twelve years older, my sister is eight years older and I was a mistake. I once, in a kidding manner, made a reference to being "an accident" to my mother, and her response was quick and to the point. "No you weren't." (The comma and the word "asshole" after the word "wrong" in the previous sentence are implied.) My mother is a woman of few words. I laughed and slunk off into the kitchen to get another of the Captain's Spiced Rum and Cola.

Since both of my siblings were of such a greater age than I, both of them were pretty much gone and out of the house by the time I came along, (my brother off to boarding school when I was about three and my sister to an apartment with a friend when I was about eight) so a lot of what I remember as a kid was being raised by myself, like an only child. No complaint or criticism intended, just telling the story. So I never really got to know either of them as children, but only later in life as adults. So I never REALLY got to know just how weird they can be. Not serious, alien abduction weird, but they do have their eccentric moments.

I moved to CA back in 2000, after almost fifty years in Chicago, a great town, a marvelous town, except in the winter. If you haven't been to Chicago in winter, or are from some wonderful, sunshiny place like Tahiti where they don't have winters, then let me help you: imagine being rolled from a warm bed, dead asleep, right into a bathtub of cold water and ice cubes. Welcome to every morning in the winter in ChiTown.

I stayed with my big sister, who also lives in LA (pronounced LAH), for the first couple of months I was out here, while I looked for employment and shelter. I came out in early autumn, with winter (Southern California-style winter) approaching.

So one frosty December morning, after the thermometer had dropped overnight into the low 40's, (40's in Chicago in December and you're outside in shorts and a teeshirt) I'm in the kitchen of my sister's apartment, reading the paper, when out walks my big sister, (whose name, by the way, is Mary Ann, and whom I refer to as L'il Mare, or, affectionately, Small Female Horse), dressed to brave the cruel elephants, er, elements of the Southern California winterscape. Keeping in mind that, less than a year previously, I had lived in the frozen tundra of Illinois, I took one look at my sister and burst out laughing.

For the Arctic temperature outside of, probably, forty-two at the worst, my sister was clad in a big, wooly knit hat, a scarf wound around her neck, covering all the way up to her ears, one of those huge, tubey-looking down-filled coats that make you look like the Michelin Tire guy, mittens the size of catcher's mitts, clipped to her sleeves, I might add, and knee-high, fur-lined mucklucks.

I can only assume that her sleigh and eight tiny snowdeer were parked outside.

My brother, whom my sister and I refer to, behind his back of course, as P.A., which stands for Pompous Ass, chases trains. Not like one of those dogs you occasionally see on AFV, you know, the ones that chase the model train around a four-foot track on the floor in an endless circle of dizziness, no, real trains. Big trains. BIG trains. BIG TRAINS.

I remember the first time my brother mentioned his hobby to me (we were on the phone at the time) ..."you chase what?...trains...not model trains?...trains...hey, Bill, (his name's Naferatidi), how big of a net do you use?...come on, it was a little funny...so what do you do with one when you catch it?...hello...I guess we got disconnected..."

When my brother was in college, back in the OLD days (like Prehistoric U days), he put himself through school working nights as a yard-master for the Rock Island RR in Chicago, and became fascinated by trains. So several times a year, my brother and some of his fellow inmates, er, train enthusiasts take a week's vacation, travel to some major rail center like Chicago or Los Angeles, and spend several days...chasing trains. I'd tell you more, but I'm pretty sure that's the whole gig.

As a hobby, it would seem to rank right up there with stamp-collecting and June bug lassoing.

Not certifiable; just weird.

Now, please let me reassure you, that neither my brother nor my sister are in anyway involved or connected with the AJATTWC, in any manner. Oh, I'd hire them (hey, I'm the Pope, I'm entitled to exercise a little nepotism), but they won't work for me.

They think I'M weird, for some reason, and for the life of me, I do not understand why. Maybe it had something to do with me telling them about the time I was abducted by aliens from the Inner Ice Ring of Mutorcs, and how they took me back to their planet, Noloc, and performed experiments on me of a, well, let me put this as delicately as I can, sexual nature, then returned me to Earth in capsule moving at the Speed of Aroma, where they continue to monitor me with sensing devices that they surgically inplanted in my...well, never mind that now.

Nah.

Love and rivalries,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Tucson, And The Price Of Freedom

I'm going to break from my usual routine and write a serious post today, for a change. For those of you who read my blog for it's humor, or what amounts to my occasionally futile efforts towards that end, read no further; this one isn't meant to be funny. I promise to get back to the silliness tomorrow.

I'm writing this on Saturday, 2/5, or four weeks after the tragedy that took place in Tucson, where, as you're all aware, a young man of dubious mental stability gunned down a number of persons outside a Safeway grocery store, killing six, including a nine-year old girl, and critically wounding a United States Congresswoman, Rep. Gabrielle Giffords. By now the story has been told repeatedly, so I won't rehash the details here.

Since this horrific event took place, there have been a number of commentators, pundits, politicians and just common everyday citizens weigh in with their opinions about what took place, and what to do about it. Some have claimed that the lack of civility in our political discourse has influenced people like Jerod Lee Loughner, the accused gunman, to commit his cowardly acts. Some have called for increased gun control, a point of view that always surfaces when events of this nature take place, and sadly, those too often. I even heard some vague remarks about the treatment of mentally unstable persons and how society as a whole can be protected from these people, and some talk also of the parent's responsibility in this matter.

To the persons thinking that the political rhetoric is out of hand, I would remind you that the 1st Amendment of our constitution, the greatest political document in mankind's history, says that, while you may not like all the vitriol coming from certain "right-wing" organizations, such as the Tea Party people, it's their right to express themselves. Just as it is the right of an artist to include an image of ants crawling across a crucifix, as was the case recently in a video that the Smithsonian Museum included in one of their exhibits, and subsequently removed under pressure from a number of sources who were offended by the image. Those of you who are offended by the rhetoric, or find this type of imagery distasteful, please remember, one man's art is another man's garbage, if I may coin a phrase. And while I agree with the late Dean Acheson, who was Secretary of State under President Truman, who once opined that "Freedom of speech is a restraint on government, not an incitement to the citizen", you can still say pretty much what you want in this country, libelous remarks and yelling "Fire" in a crowded theatre notwithstanding, whether someone else likes it or not.

To those who want increased control of gun ownership, I would remind you that while the 2nd Amendment of our Constitution gets misconstrued hugely by the gun-rights people, for it truly does not guarantee them the right "to keep and bear arms" as they believe, (and some in-depth research will reveal that the Founders of our great nation had another thought in mind completely when they wrote this amendment), the 2nd, nor any other Amendment, does not prohibit gun ownership, and until such time as our Congress can bring themselves to pass legislation to halt rampant firearms abuse, if ever, owning a gun in this country is permissible.

For those who think that persons of questionable mental stability should be ostracized from polite society, I would remind you that, back in Germany, after Adolf Hitler was elected Chancellor of that country in the early 30's, mental "defectives" were routinely rounded up and sent to concentration camps, where they were summarily slaughtered, in an attempt to keep them from "polluting" the mainstream of German society.

And for anyone who believes, as I do to some degree, that Mr. Loughner's parents bear some culpability in this matter, to my knowledge, there has never been an instance in this country where the parents or guardians of someone accused of committing a crime, large or small, have ever faced criminal charges for the quality of the upbringing they provided the accused person in their family, nor for the failure to report said person to the authorities for suspicious activities.

Essentially, in my mind, it all boils down to this: this is the price we pay for living in a free society.

I am daily offended by the nonsense that flows from both extremes of the political spectrum, from the conservatives and the liberals, and from talking to friends and colleagues, average, everyday working folks that constitute the backbone of our country, and hearing what they have to say, I know I'm not alone in those feelings. It is beyond ridiculous that the fringes seem to be the only ones whose voices we ever hear. But guess what: that's their right, under the 1st Amendment.

For my money, you can take all the handguns in the world and chuck them into the ocean, and outlaw them forever, for all they were ever meant to do was kill another human being, all the posturing of the gun lobby and the NRA to the contrary. But guess what: until that happens, the Constitution doesn't prohibit anyone from owning a gun.

Further, I don't know about you, but as much as I would like to see dangerous, mentally incompetent persons taken off the streets, unless and until someone comes up with a foolproof way to accomplish this, an unlikely possibility, given the capricious nature of mental illness, unless you advocate a return to Nazi-like oppression, it's not going to happen.

And while it might be soothing to those of us who yearn for the application of blame to SOMEONE for the horrors of Columbine, Virginia Tech and Tucson, who among us can say, unequivocally, that upbringing or environment contributed to the failure to control the sick individuals that perpetrate these acts of madness, and that their parents or caretakers should have alerted authorities before they happened and should be punished for their failure to do so.

I apologize for overstating the obvious here, but please bear with me; in America, people can hold whatever opinion they choose, and give voice to that opinion, as they please; in America, there is no prohibition in our laws generally to the owning of a handgun; in America, there are people of diminished capacity roaming our streets, and until they commit some egregious act, their freedom cannot be taken from them; in America, their is no mechanism in our laws for punishing a parent or guardian for not reporting someone in their care for dangerous or seditious thinking or plotting.

You may not like it; I know in many instances I don't. It tears out a little part of my soul every time I read about another of these horrors taking place. But that's the price we pay for living in a free society.

Winston Churchill once said that democracy was a terrible form of government, but that it was ten times better than anything else mankind had come up with previously. And despite what other people in other countries seem to believe to the contrary, this is still, by far, the greatest democracy, the greatest country in the world.

And it's a steep, but necessary, price we pay for that democracy, for that freedom, for that right to live in a free society.

The Return Of Godzilla

Although the clergy from the other church that has a Pope (that would be the Roman Catholics, not to be confused with the Greek Orthodox Catholics, the Russian Orthodox Catholics or Upper Sandusky Catholics, or for that matter, the Lower Zimbabwe eberts) are not allowed to marry, clergy from the All John All The Time World Church are allowed to do so. (By now, if you've read any of my other posts, you should know that an ebert is a small, furry mammal with two heads and an enormous sex-organ. From Lower Zimbabwe. The ebert, not the sex-organ.) So, like better than 50% of the marriages in this country, its possible that the marriage of one of the members of the clergy representing the AJATTWC could go bad, said membership being limited to yours truly. (Hey, it's still a small movement, we're just getting started, okay?) So, yes, I have an -ex, like so many other folks in this crazy world we live in, unlike gays however, who aren't allowed to marry, so, therefore, cannot have an -ex. (I have absolutely no problem with gay marriage, but I have no idea why gays are so anxious to marry; I can only assume they want to be as miserable as married heteros.)

Now my ex- isn't a bad person, and even if she were, I'd keep it to myself, because it always rankles the shit outta' me when I hear some dim-brain asshole start talking about his or her ex- like that person were the reincarnation of Jack The Ripper. Hey, dumbshit, you married him/her? How stupid does that make you? (Men seem to be the worst at doing this but hey ladies, I have to include some of you in this group as well.) I mean, without the good offices of my ex-, to say nothing of her various female parts, internal and external, I wouldn't have my daughter, who is, by far, hands down, the finest person I know. (By the way, I know that sounds biased as hell, but tough crap, she is. If my daughter didn't look so much like me, I'd have her DNA tested, just to make sure I'm her father. She's WAY too good and decent to be my kid; I have no idea what happened.)

Now, I live on the Left Coast, and the ex- lives back in the Midwest, right around Upper Sandusky, so we don't see each other often, nor do I make any attempt to keep track of her activities; after all, we've been divorced since 1982, so a lot of water has passed over the bridge since we went our separate ways. (Don't you hate when people mix their metaphors? "...water OVER the dam...", or "...water UNDER the bridge...", you goofs.)

So you can imagine my surprise when I was saw a headline on the 'Net the other day, something about a "Godzilla-like Creature Found In CA City", and when I clicked on the link, whoa, there was a picture of my ex-, to my great surprise (please see above).

Okay, it took me three-quarters of a page to set that one up, but I couldn't resist. But all that notwithstanding, Mother Nature and I are going to have a long chat about turning things that ugly loose on the unsuspecting world (I'm going to talk to her about Rosie O'Donnell also, in the same vein). That, by the way, is a Monitor lizard, and I wouldn't have known that if they hadn't said so in the article.

According to the report, some lady living in an apartment complex somewhere in Northern California looked out the window of her apartment one morning and saw this monster WALKING DOWN THE SIDEWALK. Out for a stroll, I assume. She called 911, and when the police showed up, they called the Animal Control folks, figuring, I guess, that since it was a monster, but not necessarily a criminal, it really wasn't their jurisdiction. Smart move, for my money. Besides, if just being ugly were a crime, Rosie would have been in jail years ago. The Animal Control people were able to get one of those loops they use on unfriendly dogs around it's neck and hauled it off to the pound, or wherever they take monsters upon capture. (The AnCon people speculated that, given the size of this thing, it was probably someone's pet, gone missing. If that's a pet, what's next, somebody's very own personal brontosaurus?)

Okay, I apologize for the "gee, what's a picture of my ex- doing on the Internet" joke; I am abject in my contrition.

But you know, if I had known back then that she had a tongue like that, I might have stayed married to her.

Love and Rodan,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Walking And Scklorn Mutants

As I rapidly approach another birthday, and I won't say which one this is, but I will say that I was born during the Reconstruction (which for you non-History Channel types, was the period in this country, roughly, from right after the War Between The States through 1877, and believe me, I didn't remember the dates either, I had to look them up), which makes me approximately 140 years old. About the same age as Bob Barker. (I have some mystery food in Tupperware containers at the back of my refrigerator that are about that old as well.)

With the increasing years, I've tried to take better care of myself, and in line with that point of view, I've gone back to an activity that I had abandoned for quite some time: walking.

Now I didn't stop walking completely; I still have to get from my throne (hey, I'm the Pope of the All John All The Time World Church, I have a throne) in the living room to the kitchen during Dodger/Laker games, from my bedroom to the throne in the bathroom in the middle of the night when I have to pee, etc. So casual walking is something I never completely stopped doing, just the "walking for exercise" gig. (I've also noticed with my advancing years that not a night goes by, not one, that I don't have to get up at least once to pee. Every night, without fail, somewhere between 2:00am and 3:30am, my bladder says, okay, I'm at full capacity, time to reduce the load. (Your bladder talks to you, doesn't it?) Every night. And the really bad part is that, once I'm awake, I have a hard time going back to sleep. I do a lot of reading in the wee hours of the morning.) (Use of the word "wee" in the last sentence was an unintentional pun.)

No, the kind of walking I'm referring to is done for exercise, with a designated starting/ending point, shoes designed specifically for the purpose, exercise-type clothing and a synthesized, gamma ray-generating 56mm harmonizing laser cannon in case I'm attacked by Scklorn Mutants from the Outer Halcyons of Ambergris during my walk. I walk a minimum of a mile (sometimes a mile and a half) daily at least 6 days a week, in an effort to maintain some level of fitness and to attempt to keep the old lard ass from getting any lardier. Back about 15 years ago, I used to walk 6 miles every Saturday and Sunday, or 12 miles a weekend; then I got into biking, and an average weekend would see me go between 15 and 20 miles both days. (Large sigh of resignation here.) Sadly, those days are now past.

But I enjoy walking, and, unlike sex and cow-milking, its easy, needs no elaborate equipment and requires no particular physical talent, other than the ability to put one foot in front of the other without tripping and falling to the pavement.

But despite all the years I've been walking (slightly less than I've been alive), I recently discovered something interesting about the actual physical act of ambulation I was unaware of previously; you cannot, at least I can't, walk without swinging your arms. Now, when I say walk, I don't mean the casual stroll from your cubicle at work to the lady's room, or the walk you make from your car to the entrance of the mall. No, I'm talking about walking for exercise, with no other intent in mind, just getting from point A to point L. The minute I start to walk, my arms start swinging. Not helicopter-trying-to-take-off swinging, just this rhythmic back and forth movement.

And try to walk any distance without swinging your arms; go ahead, hold them down, straight at your sides and see how awkward walking becomes. (Go ahead, I'll wait.)

But even more interesting to me is the other discovery I've made about walking; as you step with either foot, the opposite arm moves. Step with left foot, right arm moves. Step with right foot, left arm moves. Just like four-legged animals, for example, like the ebert. (For those of you not familiar with the ebert, its a small, furry two-headed mammal with an enormous sex-organ from Lower Zimbabwe. The ebert is from Lower Zimbabwe, not the sex-organ.)

I tried to teach Harley, the official canine of the Pope of the AJATTWC (that would be me), to walk by moving his left front and left rear legs at the same time, which, of course, causes him to fall over every time he starts to take a step. He has indicated to me his displeasure with this attempt to reconfigure his walking activities, and has stopped cooperating. (Ungrateful mutt; see if I rub your belly and tell you what a good dog you are anymore.)

I considered adding gum-chewing to my exercise regimen, but I figured, with all the arm-swinging and the concentration I needed to make sure I do the left leg/right arm function properly, it would be just too many activities to ask this old brain to keep in focus.

However, I can still rub Harley's belly and pat his head at the same time, proving conclusively that I'm more than capable of repelling an attack from Scklorn Mutants at any time during one of my walks.

And how many people my age can say that? (Or would want to?)

Love and pedometers,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Ear Piercing Is A Young Man's Game

I spend quite a bit of my time as Pope of the All John All The Time World Church answering questions from my followers, some deeply serious, some frivolous. What is God's plan for mankind? Why does a merciful, compassionate God allow such horrors as hunger, violence, disease, hatred and poverty to exist? Is there a proper way to worship God, and what is it? Is the Bible the ultimate moral authority? Why is the word l-i-m-a pronounced LIE-ma when it's a bean and LEE-ma when it's a city in Peru? And the most challenging question of all, well into their second CENTURY of futility, will the Chicago Cubs EVER win another World Series?

I take great pains to provide my followers with concise, cogent answers to these enquiries, as best I am able, although the LIE-ma/LEE-ma thing has me stumped. But the question I have the most difficulty answering is one that has perplexed mankind since that fateful day we crawled out of the primordial swamp, stood for the first time, looked around at our new surroundings and asked, "What effect will it have on me if I get my ears pierced?"

I personally faced this dilemma several years ago when, on a sunny spring afternoon, along with my good friend Ron, I visited a head-shop/tattoo/ear-pierce parlor located in one of the bucolic suburbs of Chicago. Ron was interested in purchasing a water-pipe, I assume for the smoking of exotic brands of tobacco, and I was along for the ride, as an observer. (Just as an observer, certainly never as a "water-piper".) Please note as a frame of reference, this was back in the 90's, when things were just a little different than today; a middle-aged guy having an ear pierced then was still a little "out-there", if you get my drift. And this was Chicago, not LA (pronounced LAH, as in doe-ray-me-fah-so-LA-tee-doe a deer, a female deer, ray, a drop of golden sun, etc.).

The establishment in question, the Satan Is Supreme Tattoo Parlor and Recreational Dungeon, is, I would assume, having little experience in these matters, fairly typical of the genre; pictures of all sorts of tattoos covered the walls, some beautiful, some grotesque, with a number of glass display cases positioned about the sales floor, exhibiting all manner of products, most of which were related to the smoking and enjoyment of various tobacco products. In the rear, behind closed doors, were the various rooms that were reserved for the application of tattoos and the piercing of ears, and there was the obligatory cash register just inside the entrance.

In one of the display cases near the register there were a number of trays containing items not related to tattoos or the consumption of smoking materials: all sorts of earrings, silver, gold, various other minerals, some tacky, some delicately exquisite, all for persons with pierced ears, and, as I learned subsequently, other pierced body parts as well.

A young lady, who worked in the shop, and was the possessor of the most amazing blue hair, pierced ears, lips, eyebrows, nose, tongue and other parts I preferred not to know about, approached Ron and I and asked if she could provide us with some assistance. Ron answered that he was looking for a new pipe, and she directed him to the proper case. While she helped Ronny look over their selection, I was checking out the earrings on display, and thinking to myself, I wonder...?

The saleslady, leaving my friend for a moment, came over to where I was and asked if I would like to purchase an earring(s) and have my ear(s) pierced.  I chuckled at the notion, but said that, while I had considered, on several occasions, having an ear(s) pierced, I had done nothing about it, being a middle-aged white guy from the suburbs. (To understand where I'm going with all this, you need to know something: I had to get hearing aids for both my ears when I was in my mid-40's, several years prior to this incident. While the loss of my hearing was certainly traumatic, it could have been worse; I could have gotten married again.)

And then, faithful followers of the AJATTWC and your favorite Popearama, the fateful words blurted from my mouth, to ever seal my destiny; "I don't know, I'm a little afraid to have my ears pierced, because, you know, it might somehow mess up my hearing aids", and in that moment of truth, a painful realization struck me, with great force and clarity:

You know you're REALLY (REALLY) getting old when you're afraid to have your ears pierced for fear it will somehow interfere up your hearing aids.

The irony was almost too painful to bear.

Love and wheelchairs,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Hey, The Job Has To Have SOME Perks, Right?

Those of you who, apparently, have no more to do with your lives then to read my blog may remember that I mentioned the "official" yacht of the Pope of the All John All The Time World Church, the SS Dee Dee, which is a 245 foot, twin-engined beauty capable of 5982 knots (that's 38 mph to you non-nautical types, or piR squared plus postage and handling), sleeps 115 guests, has a swimming pool, beauty salon, casino, massage parlor, tennis courts, the Statue of Liberty, two pubs and its own zip-code, in one of my previous posts. Yes, the Pope, like all good consumers, has his little toys.

The "DeeDee", despite rumors to the contrary, was NOT named after my ex-girlfriend, Dee Dee Spanxalot, a lady of deep refinement and unusual tastes; in fact, or infield base hit, the name came from one of our mottos here at the AJATTWC, which states, definitively, that, in most instances, its the "same shit, different day" pretty much everyday. (As Pope of the AJATTWC, I believe in giving a strong, positive message to my followers.)

(Okay, back to Paragraph One; what exactly is a "knot"? I know what it means when used in conjunction with a string or a rope; God knows, DeeDee and I had plenty of practice using ropes and...well, never mind that now. But how much is a "knot" when I'm sailing along on the Popesedential yacht? I mean, if I'm doing 15 "knots", am I flying along at the Speed of Aroma, or am I ambling along at 60 mph like some asshole in a '93 Crown Vic in the far left lane of the freeway? I have no frame of reference for "knots", other than those you tie in your shoelaces. I am depressed.)

I like to take the Dee Dee out on Sunday afternoons after services, usually to celebrate the killing we made in passing the collection plate that day, and cruise down the Monongahela River at the fore-mentioned 5982 knots. (I don't live anywhere near the Monongahela, which is, at least the last time I looked for it, in the great state of Pennsylvania, whereas I reside in a constant state of confusion. I just really think "Monongahela" is a great name for a river. And isn't "ebert" a great name for a small, furry mammal with two heads and an enormous sex organ from Lower Zimbabwe?) (The ebert is from Lower Zimbabwe, not its sex organ.) It's tremendously relaxing after a busy morning of wrestling with the Devil, at least thematically, to kick back with an adult beverage and sail down the river, enjoying the cool breeze, oblivious to all else in the world. Given the pressure under which the Pope of the AJATTWC has to work as leader of his flock, a few simple diversions don't seem to be too much to ask.

But unlike my colleague in Rome, you know, that OTHER Pope, the one with the Vatican full of priceless art treasures, extensive property worldwide, and his own bank, I feel guilty owning all these expensive playthings, like the Dee Dee, or my atomic-powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, or RU Kidding for short, when so many of my followers are struggling with the economic realities of our world today, such as the recession, being unemployed, the shrinking value of their investments or the fact that a Whopper Value Meal, king-size with cheese, will now set you back almost 8 bucks.

But as Pope, I have a certain "image" to maintain with the members of the AJATTWC, and since appearances are so important in the "Religion" game, (much like the "Hollywood" game or the "Washington, D.C." game), I keep these tokens of my follower's esteem for me, and use them gratuitously.

Hey, why do you think a person becomes the leader of a major church, to get into Heaven? Or to lead his flock to the attainment of nirvana, or the blessing of the Almighty?

Yeah, right. Hey, I'm outta' here; me and the old consigliore, the Right Reverend Michael Jordan (not the ex-Chicago Bull) are headed out on the Dee Dee for a cruise. We'll be back in time for next Sunday's collections, I mean, services.

Love and hypocrisy,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

The Right Stuff, Just The Wrong Baby

I got to thinking about being born after I wrote that last post about Rachel Urchitel, the, well, I'm not sure what exactly she is; I started to write "reality star" but I'm not sure she's even that, she's just another one of those Hollywood anomalies that exist because of unusual circumstances, like those puffed-up, weird-looking fish that live 78 gazillion feet beneath the sea, that never see sunlight or TMZ and will implode if you ever brought them close to the surface. I'm not sure if Ms. Urchitel would implode by coming too close to the surface or not, but it does make an interesting mental image.

Like Rachel, and I'm assuming here on both our parts, I was born naked, and unlike Rachel, who was told by Janice Dickinson, another household name in the world of celebrity rehab, that "you were born with a silver spoon up your ass", to the best of my knowledge I wasn't born with any cutlery of any kind up my wazoo. I'm sure my mother would have mentioned it at some point. Personally, I don't remember much about my birth, being quite young at the time. (Great story about the day my parents brought me home from the hospital; the way my Dad, who passed on in 2003, used to tell the tale, when he and my Mom arrived home with me in tow, the phone was ringing and my Dad answered it, and the lady at the other end identified herself as the head of the hospital where I was born (remember, this was a LOT of years ago and under no circumstances is this likely to happen today), and said that she was sorry, but that he and Mom had brought home the wrong baby. My mother gets on the phone and says, oh no, I have my baby. And the nice lady at the hospital says, wrongo, Mrs. Popemother, your squalling brat is still here with us. So my parents, being quick-thinkers, said, shit, maybe there was something to this wrong baby stuff (the other kid was MUCH better looking, and that was a dead giveaway) and headed back to the hospital, with what was, apparently, someone else's kid. They arrived back at the scene of the crime and quickly ascertained that, yep, wrong kid went home with the Popefolks. Some nurse's aide had apparently read the chart wrong and brought them the wrong baby when they were leaving. Absolutely true story. And although they never said it, they always gave me the impression that there were times they wished they had kept the other kid. He didn't have a third eye in the middle of his forehead.)

I began my training to become the Pope of the All John All The Time World Church by being born into a Roman Catholic (you know, that church with the OTHER Pope) family in the 1950's, and the brain-washi...excuse me, the teaching began immediately. I attended a Catholic grade school (Our Lady Of Perpetual Motion), became an altar boy in the 5th grade (fell down three steps off the altar "serving Mass" at my older brother's wedding), and then advanced to the position of "lector" (which has nothing to do with the deranged, cannibalistic killer in the movie "The Silence Of The Lambs"; it's a lay-person, or at least it was back in those days, who gets up at the pulpit on the altar during Mass and reads the various texts from Scripture for that day's ceremony, you know, like passages from Elysians 7, Verse 10, or something from the II Evasions, Chapter 5, Paragraph 15(b)(401k) or whatever), when I was 13 or so, and then continued my indoctrination by attending an all-boys Catholic high school, run by the Vegemite Brothers Of The Holy Sandwich, who, in an effort to instill SOMEthing in my adolescent brain, proceeded to pound the crap out of me, along with most of my fellow brain-dead Catholic teenagers, at every opportunity. Ooh, those were fun times.

Coming from a background this rich in the fundamentals of moralistic thinking and intellectual enquiry has given me the diverse yet well-grounded foundation that I required to be the Pope of a world-class spiritual community. I'm pretty sure it didn't leave me suited to do much else; with that beginning, I could maybe have been a Mattress Tag Policeman (you know, the guys that go around checking to see if the "Do Not Remove This Tag" tag has been removed from your mattress and/or box spring), or a United States Congressman. So when the opening for Pope of the AJATTWC became available, I leapt at the chance. (Well, to be honest, at my age, I just hopped vigorously.)

And the competition for the position was stiff; Rachel Urchitel applied just before I did. But there was that thing with the silver spoon in her background (pardon the pun), so they passed on her.

And the rest, as they say, is geography.

Love and diapers,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.