Go Lakers!

I am an unabashed sports fan, and long time L.A. Laker fan; I was a Lakers fan even back in the days when I was a died-in-the-wool Chicago Bulls fan, you know, back in the 90's, in the Michael Jordan (yes, THAT Michael Jordan, not the Pope's consigliore) and Scotty Pippen days, and I'm a Chicago native, so believe, I was a Bulls fan, and I still am.

But when it comes to the NBA, its all Go Lakers. I'm pulling for the Bulls, but if by some miracle, the Lakers and the Bulls would end up in the Finals, guess what?

Go Lakers.

Go Lakers.

Go Lakers.

Love and three-point shots,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

The NO BULLetin

Okay, race fans, its...Dah..Dah..Dah..DAH..."Announcements" time again; that's right, all you loyal followers of yours truly, the Pope Guy, the All John All The Time World Church must occasionally make its followers, all several of them, aware of its activities, just like any other church; that's why we have announcements. (And you thought we had Announcements just so the Church could sell ad space, didn't you? Cynics.)

Anyway, in no particular order:

*Woman's Club To Host Candidate*

            The President of the Woman's Club of the AJATTWC, Sister May Flowers, would like to invite all the ladies in the Church to plan to come hear potential Presidential candidate Sarah Plain And Loud, give an address on "Child Rearing In A Democratic, Liberal, Slutty World" next Tuesday evening, 4/4/4/4, at 36:15ppm, or Star Date 7563.22, in the Church Meeting Hall. Ms. Plain And Loud will share stories of her experiences as a "mama grizzly" and talk about how the repulsive, sickening lack of morals and values of the sleazy, disgusting liberal Democrats in this country pose a threat to the well-being and proper, Christian upbringing of our children. She will further tell of her battles with her own kids over having proper attitudes, the proper manner of dress and actions and living a decent, moral and most importantly, chaste life, and how she failed so miserably with her own daughter, Bristol.

Refreshments will be served afterwards, and Sister May asked that all you ladies who plan to attend contact her about bringing a covered dish (preferably with something in it to eat).

FYI, Ms. Plain And Loud waived her usual $75,000 speaking fee for this appearance, but asks that donations be made to the AJATTWC-sponsored charity, the Home For The Chronically Bewildered, where her daughter, Bristol, was recently committed.

*A Warning*

            Brother Willy Ficksit, fellow AJATTWCian and owner of the Mr. Ficksit's Auto Repair and Spa, has asked that we pass on the following public service announcement:

            Please make sure you check your car for squirrels before you drive.

That's right, hockey-lovers, err, brothers and sisters, please make sure to check under the hood of your car periodically to ensure that squirrels haven't nested in your engine compartment. Brother Willy said that a fellow garage owner passed on a news report to him from Braintree MA that told of a woman who was having trouble with her car and took it in to her mechanic to be looked at. After a thorough examination, she was told that squirrels had built a nest in the engine compartment, and that, given the fact that the furry little devils had chewed through much of the engine's wiring, she was extraordinarily lucky that the engine, and the whole car, hadn't caught fire.

Brother Willy also said that anyone who would like a free squirrel inspection of their vehicle can bring the car into his shop any weekday before 5:00pm. (Mr. Ficksit's closes at 5:00pm when the spa opens.) FYI, the "squirrel inspection" is free, however, there will be a "hazardous material removal" fee of $150 for any vehicle that has nesting animals.

*Legal News*

            Brother O. Boy Dewey, partner at the law firm of Dewey, Cheatum and Howe, and chairman of the Church's Legal Department, has also asked that a public service announcement be made in The NO BULLetin, concerning uterusesuses, uhh, sorry, uteruses, and their incorporation.

            Brother Boy urges any of the ladies of the Church who are concerned with losing control over their reproductive rights to follow the suggestion of the ACLU in Florida and incorporate your uterus. (Your spleen can continue to be a sole proprietorship.) According to Brother Boy, the organization recently launched a website, www.IncorporateMyUterus.com, that will explain all the issues involved, including such topics as corporate taxation of your uterus, ensuring your uterine corporation has proper legal representation, how to avoid a hostile takeover of your corporation by a partnership led by your gall bladder, and many others. The website also explains how men can incorporate an "honorary uterus".

            Brother Boy also reports that the lawsuit involving the Church's "tax exempt" status, ~U.S. v That Lyin' Sack Of Camel Poop PJTT and the AJATTWC~, is still pending and should come to trial sometime in the next 300 hundred years. For the newer members of the Church, this lawsuit stems from the investigation by the U.S. Department Of Justice into remarks made by your Pope Person that were perceived as "political". Its blatant harassment, and is probably the result of an extreme case of envy on their part. (Serious sarcasm starts here.) I mean, why would the DOJ have a problem with an organization that doesn't pay ONE PENNY in taxes, that is dedicated to the spiritual and moral well being of their congregations, having political opinions and trying to sway their congregation to its way of thinking? Why is that a problem? (Okay, sarcasm all gone.)

            (Your Pope apologizes for the sarcastic editorial comments in the last paragraph (above); I've been told by the Bored of Elders that I may not editorialize in The NO BULLetin, and I forgot, and I'm sorry, and I won't do it again ever. I promise.)

*The AJATTWC's Second Annual Gerbil Golf Outing*

            Men's Club President Brother Bill Collector is pleased to announce that the Church's Second Annual Gerbil Golf Outing will take place on Saturday, 5.3/69, with the first tee time at 8:8:9. All of you gerbil golfers who would like to participate need to put their names (and handicap) on the sign-up sheet in the Church office. Since this is a fund-raising event, as well as a great time, $75 of the $100 "greens fee" for each player will be donated to the Home For The Chronically Bewildered, with the remaining $25 going directly to the Popemeister, to cover expenses and provide beer.

            And folks, please let's not have a repeat of last year's unfortunate incident involving hamsters. The guilty parties confessed, paid for the repairs of the Church kitchen and all was forgiven (except for several really unhappy hamsters). Let's have a great tournament and a fun day.

*Wedding Plans Revealed*

            Brother Hy Waders and his wife, Sister Vanilla, are thrilled to announce that their lovely daughter, Hyram Jr., is to be married on June Umpteenth, here in the Church, to her fiancé and welding instructor, Brother Bob Upendown, son of Brother Letsgo and his lovely wife, Bouncing. The happy couple will have as their best man Mr. Ben Dover, and the maid of honor will be Sister Karen Feeding, and are registered at Sam's Dungeon and Pizza Parlor, the Doll House and WalMart.

*Teen Club Movie Party*

            Sister Deb Utant, the President of the Teens For John, the teen club of the AJATTWC, wants all the teenagers in the Church to know that the TFJ is planning a "movie party" for next Friday evening, starting with seeing the movie "Teens Aflame", a infomovie by Sarah Plain And Loud examining the horror and sluttiness and disgustingness and sinfulness of teenage...uhh, naughty stuff. After the movie, everyone is invited to attend a post-movie discussion of the ultra-right wing conservative, um, excuse me, the issues brought up in the movie. The "discussion group" will "party" here in the Church Meeting Hall, where there will ample armed chaperones. Sister Deb asks that volunteers contact her to help with refreshments.

*Please Patronize Our Sponsors*

            The Bored Of Elders of the Church asks that you patronize the local merchants who so willingly support our activities.

-The Law Firm of Dewey, Cheatum and Howe, Attorneys At Law

            "No case, nor fee, is too small; we're in it for the dough."

            www.MyLawyerCanWhipYourLawyer.com

-Sam's S&M Dungeon and Pizza Parlor

"Tie Me Up and Feed Me Pizza"

227 North Bondage Ave.

-L.A. Beautiful-"It's Time For Your Dream Body"

                        Visit us at www.labeautiful.com

                        All Types Of Plastic Surgery including:

                        -breast augmentation

                        -breast lifts

                        -male breast ("moobs") reduction

                        -hammer toe, (and "screwdriver ear")

                        -facelift

                        -tummy tuck

                        -and many others

            Receive $1000 OFF any qualified procedure with this bulletin

            Free Limo Service with qualified procedures

(The above is an actual ad that appears periodically in the L.A. Times. Other than the "bulletin" part. You can check out the website if you don't believe me. Only in LA.)

Love and hymnals,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

...and For The Umpteenth Time, From The Department Of Departments...

So after the Harley Dog and I, HD being the "official" canine of the All John All The Time World Church, returned from our missionary trip to Harrisburg PA (see my post from 4/6/11), your Pope Guy (that would be me), decided to check in with my department heads (which reminds me of the line from the great Sam Cooke song "Saturday Night": "...here's another Saturday Night and I ain't got nobody...") to see what was going on in the rest of the AJATTWC world. (Okay, I admit that the "department heads/I ain't got nobody" joke was a little esoteric, but when I wrote "department heads" I had this quick, mental image of this disembodied head sitting on a chair behind a desk littered with papers and reports, then the "I ain't got NO BODY" thing followed it, and then the Sam Cooke song and, well, there you go; what, did you think someone with NORMAL thought processes would think this shit up? Come on.)

Anyway, I received a number of reports from my various staff members that I thought I should pass on to you, my faithful followers. In no particular order:

From the FYI Department:

Funk & Wagnalls, as in "look that up in your..." from the hilarious and groundbreaking '60's TV show, "Laugh In". That's all, just, Funk & Wagnalls.

From the Great Moments In Golf Course Design Department:

I was thinking the other day that, really, the only two actual, physical deterrents to a good golf score are sandtraps and rough; talent and luck are more ephemeral. So I started thinking about adding another "hazard" to golf courses: fire pits.

            Instead of, say, a sandtrap guarding the front edge of a green, how about a fire pit? You could have 15 or 20 feet of roaring flames that a person has to hit over to make the green, and every club house would have available those environmental suits firemen wear, in case someone wanted to play their lie rather than take a drop and a penalty.

            And I want to set up kiosks on all the major courses that would sell fire insurance, you know, like the ones in airports selling flight insurance. Should be a big mover.

From the FYI Department (again):

"Hamlet" was NOT a 2 pound canned ham, but a play by Oscar Mayer, err, excuse me, William Shakespeare, about a Danish prince. (And that's DENMARK, not the pastry.)

From the Will He Ever Go Away Completely? Department:

Arnold Schwarzenhooten, the actor (using the term loosely) and former Governator of the great State of California recently announced that he would soon be making "a grand return as a comic-book crime fighting hero", and that he was "pumped for my next role as the Governator".

            Nothing I could think to add as a comment about the above would do it justice; I will let the report stand on its own "merits", although it could be observed that, since his entire term as governor was a joke, a new career as a comic-book hero seems completely apropos. Hey, Arnie is no "girly-man" and apparently believes he should "always leave'em laughing", except that seven years of this asshole as governor of the state with the 6th largest economy in the WORLD (not the U.S., the world) wasn't so funny to its citizens.

From the I Wonder How High I Can Get With These Shoes? Department:

Nike recently announced that on April 20th of this year, they will begin marketing a new skateboarding shoe, named for the '70's "stoner" comedians, Cheech and Chong. (For those of you unaware of it, "420" has become the unofficial designation for smoking marijuana; the term originated with a group of high school students from San Rafael CA, and the story of how it came into being is so convoluted that I'll direct you to the WikiPedia article for an explanation rather than repeat it here. Anyway, 4/20 is the unofficial American Pot Day, which is why it was chosen to be the day that Nike introduces their new line.) The new shoe will be called the "Nike SB Dunk High 420 Cheech & Chong", and will feature, among other things, "marijuana-green laces"; Nike is planning to produce only a 1000 pairs, so I suspect they will become collector's items rapidly.

            Hey, Nike, how about a Vladimar Putin shoe to be intro'd on May Day?

From the Which One Is More Offensive (Or Hypocritical), The Daughter Or The Mom? Department:

According to a report on the "WonderWall" on MSN.com, Bristol Palin, the un-wed teenage mother and daughter of bear-hunter and good-for-a-laugh Republican Presidential candidate Sarah, Plain and Loud, was paid $262,000.00 by the Candies Foundation in 2010 to be the Foundation's "abstinence ambassador". Let me run that number by you again: Two Hundred And Sixty-Two Thousand Dollars. In American money, I assume.

            The Candies Foundation was created, according to Chairman and foundation CEO Neil Cole, "to promote abstinence" amongst the customers of their line of apparel. The Foundation's slogan: "Just because you're wearing high-heeled sexy shoes doesn't mean you should have a baby." (So help me, that's a quote.)

            Unfortunately, this message apparently didn't mean anything to the ubiquitous Ms. Palin Junior back several years ago when she became an eighteen year old unmarried mother of a son, Tripp, the father of said baby being a fellow mental giant, Levi Johnston, who, due to his fatherhood of little Tripp, has now enjoyed his "15 minutes". (Assuming genetics, based on the parents of this unfortunate child, Tripp will probably have the IQ of a good golf score.)

            But Ms. Plain Junior now has a new tune: if you're a young, healthy, unmarried person of either gender, please ignore those natural sexual instincts you have and practice abstinence.

            Just because she didn't doesn't mean you shouldn't, right? (Hypocrisy, thy name is Palin.)

From the Which One Is A Bigger Joke? Department:

Bristol Palin or teenage abstinence as a viable form of birth-control?

From the How Many One-Armed People Can There Be In Maine? Department:

According to a report from Reuters, the international news service, "Maine lawmakers on Wednesday approved legalizing switchblades for people with one arm, moving close to becoming the first state to make such an exception to laws that ban use of the spring-action knives."

            Okay, now I have no problem with assisting the handicapped; as a matter of fact, I'm seriously hearing-challenged (as well as permanently brain-damaged by years of gerbil abuse) so "handicapped" issues are of some importance to me. But come on, guys, isn't this taking the whole thing a little too far? I mean, how many one-armed people, other than wallpaper hangers, can there be in Maine?

            Give the Maine Legislature credit for trying to do the right thing, but I'm thinking, with all the problems states are having these days with budget deficits, decreasing revenues, education, public-sector unions, welfare, health-care, etc., that the time spent enacting this bill could have been used in more productive ways.

            "Backers of the measure say legalizing switchblades would eliminate a need for one-armed people to be forced to open folding knives with their teeth in emergencies."

            I'll bet its comforting for the one-armed residents of the State of Maine to know that, in an emergency, they won't have to use their teeth to open a regular folding knife, but instead can, legally, flip open a switchblade. I just hope they don't intend to use it like the guy in the movie "127 Hours" did.

Besides, if a one-armed person used their switchblade to saw off their remaining trapped-between-the-boulders arm, like in the movie, they would still have to hold the knife with their teeth anyway, wouldn't they?

From the Incredibly Stupid And Totally Out Of Touch With Reality Comments Department:

            Jesuit priest Father Guido Sarducci, err, sorry, Antonio Spadaro was recently quoted in the Vatican magazine Civilta Cattolica as saying that computer "hackers", "embody classic Christian virtues" and "shouldn’t be perceived negatively."

"Citing the 'joyful application of intelligence to problem solving' they demonstrate, and their ingrained rejection of competition, profit and authority, Spadaro said hackers are aligned with the teachings of Christianity. 'Under fire are control, competition, property,' Spadaro said. It’s a mindset, he said, that has 'a clear theological origin.' (However, citing technology writer Eric S. Raymond, Spadaro said hackers shouldn’t be confused with 'crackers'; the former builds things and the latter breaks them, Raymond wrote.)"

The entire paragraph above is a quote from an article by Matt Leibowitz, in his column called "Security News". Computer security, I assume.

One can only hope that the next poor person who's entire life is thrown off course by some asshole hacker out there who steals their financial and personal information off the 'Net will be allowed a private audience with the good Reverend Spadaro. I also hope they're allowed to bring a baseball bat to the meeting, and apply it vigorously.

And just how far out of touch with the real world do you think the Vatican is these days? Let's see, no birth-control, hackers are okay, its okay for priests to molest children, as long as they don't get caught, priests still practice celibacy, yeah, they've moved seamlessly into the 16th century, wouldn't you agree?

Well, that's it for today, country music lovers, your Pope has pontificated (pardon the pun) long enough; I'm hungry and I'm going to go get some lunch. I was thinking about Chez Paul in Chicago, but I'm not sure I could get a reservation on this short notice; good thing there's a Mickey D's just down the street. (Hey, the McDonalds is for Harley; I'll come home and have a tofu salad and a six pound container of prune yogurt...not.)

Besides, you can bet a Big Mac would give HD some MAJOR gas, and lemme' tell you, Harley and flatulence is like politicians and fund-raising...they go together well but you wish they didn't.

Love and Macy's (departments, you doofuses),

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

The Right Stuff, Just The Wrong Baby

(Today's essay was first posted to my blog back on  2/1/11; since the story below is a true one, I thought running it again would be good for my reputation. Enjoy.)

 

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's 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.

...I Wonder What She's Wearing Under That Robe?...

So there we were, me and the Harley Dog, (me being Pope John The Tall of the All John All The Time World Church, and Harley being the "official" canine of the Pope Guy), hanging out on the beach at Cancun, enjoying the incredible weather, white-sand beaches and a SHITLOAD of great looking women, in bikinis, thongs and some even topless. We've got cold ones in the cooler, a half-pack of cigarettes, its a 106 miles to Chicago, its night and we're wearing sunglasses...wait, that's a scene from "The Blues Brothers" movie, it doesn't belong in this story. Okay, let's try that again. We've got cold ones in the cooler, the sun is shining, Harley has on his Speedo, there's mostly naked women ALL over the place and all is right with the world (at least for the moment; that will probably change quickly).

(Harley in a Speedo; like most men (and dogs) who wear those silly things, Harley doesn't have the physique for the swimsuit that Phoebe (Lisa Kudrow's character) from the TV show "Friends" once described as a "banana hammock". Most guys wearing Speedos look like ten pounds of sausage in a five-pound casing; you know, stuff bulging out everywhere.)

I have the good sense to have on a typical, middle-aged, sensible swimsuit, which means it covers most of my sins of excess but not all of them, and the ones that are still "on view" are just a little unsightly. When you're my age, modesty isn't an option, its a necessity; otherwise, you run the risk of outraging the other people on the beach or around the pool with a vulgar display of WAY too much wrinkly, puckered, out-of-shape skin. (Speaking of showing too much, how's this for an image you don't want in your mind: Kirstie Alley in a thong.)

Harley and I decided, after about 14 seconds consideration, that we should be allowed to have a few days off to spend lazing on the beach in "beautiful Cancun", soaking up the sun, some brews, some nightlife and looking at gorgeous semi-naked women until our eyes fell out. So I had the ground crew guys of the AJATTWC roll out my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, or RU Kidding for short, and told them to get her prepared to jump to Cancun the next day. (The Kidding is equipped with HyperAromaDrive, which allows her to reach speeds in excess of the Speed Of Aroma; since we're leaving from our launch pad here in the bucolic, cloudy and overcast San Fernando Valley, home of the porn industry and the headquarters of the AJATTWC, we should be able to reach the Gulf, using the HAD, in about 3.29 seconds, or about the length of time between stupid utterances by Rush Limbaugh.)

So we fired up the Kidding, loaded her up with beach stuff, a big cooler and several of those plastic shovel/rake/bucket sets and headed for Mexico.

...3.29 seconds later...

Well, here we are in Cancun, home of beautiful beaches, gorgeous babes in tiny or almost non-existent swimsuits, Senor Frogs nightclub, hotties in thongs, the Coco Bongo club, great-looking girls in bikinis, some really amazing snorkeling, a shitload of mostly naked women, (have you noticed the "mostly naked women" thing as a theme here?) and lots of touristy fun things to do, like wave-running and fishing and eating until you feel like you might burst and spread fat, happy tourist parts all over Eastern Mexico. And a lot of barely dressed female types. (Boy, if there's any truth to the study done by that German doctor that showed that men who stared at women's breasts lived longer, healthier lives, I'm a cinch to live to 269. Easy.)

FYI, I brought my cell phone but never turned it on; I figured that way, we might have three UNINTERRUPTED days of sunbathing, (who wants a dirty sun, right?), observing, downing brewskis, watching women, being lazy, checking out women, etc. And since we were in our room so seldom, I just ignored the messages on the phone on the nightstand. Hey, I'm the Pope, okay?

So what does my partner in crime do with his cell? Yep, he leaves it on, and we're down at the hotel's pool the second afternoon we were there, lying around looking drunk and sleazy, watching all the gorgeous babes, (you think I'm in a rut here or what?), when guess what? Harley's phone rings, and the Caller ID shows its my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one that endorses Nike shoes), and you know its not good news.

Harley answered and handed me the phone. (Actually, since he doesn't have opposing thumbs, he nudged it at me with his nose.)

"PJ...hey, Mike, how's things back in the workaday world?...no...no...no, we just got here yesterday...no...tell them I said no...I don't care, I'm tired of having my breaks and vacations interrupted...no...a TWO-YEAR subscription to S & M Fantasties?...(big sigh of capitulation here)...okay, where we going?...yeah, send me the info...okay...yeah, okay, see when we get back..." Shit.

The RRMMJ tells me that the Bored of Elders at the AJATTWC has identified another "trouble spot" where they feel the soothing balm of Johnism is needed, and that Harley and I have to leave immediately for Harrisburg PA, to deliver the message. So off we went, after a final few hours of "beaching", a new word I just invented.

According to WGAL.com, Harrisburg police recently "filed charges against a Pennsylvania judge who they said they found highly intoxicated, unclothed and wrapped in a bedsheet in a Cumberland County hotel." (Probably looking for the ice machine.)

Seems like the Harrisburg PD got a call late one evening from another judge who was staying at the Radisson Penn Harris hotel, attending a judicial conference of some sort (the report didn't specify what the conference was all about: new ways to conduct voir dire, maybe?), and had met Douglas Gummo (no, I didn't make that name up), a magisterial district judge from Huntingdon County, and the one who was the one accused of "harassment, disorderly conduct and public drunkenness." Earlier in the day, Judge Gummo had met the female judge who later called police, and after he had, apparently, hoisted a few cold ones with his brother jurists in the hotel lounge, decided to pay a visit to his newfound judicial buddy (the female judge), and according to the police report, was trying to gain entrance to her room when police arrived.

"She refused him admission to her room previously in the evening," the police news release stated. "Gummo then returned a short period later and beat on her door for approximately 10 minutes and attempted to turn the doorknob. He left and returned on two other occasions beating on the door, attempting to gain access."

The release goes on to state that when Gummo tried to get in the room the third time, the judge inside, who has not been identified, called police.

Now I don't know about you, but I find the idea of drunken, almost naked male jurists, skulking around the halls of a hotel, attempting to gain entrance to women's rooms a bit unsettling. Okay, a lot unsettling. Isn't it assumed that judges, of all people, would try to set a good example for the rest of us with their behavior? If we wanted our court officers to act like drunken college kids at a frat kegger, then we'd appoint drunken college kids to the bench.

If judges in Harrisburg PA can roam the halls of local hotels, acting drunk and disorderly, then the Bored was absolutely right: this is a place that desperately needs the message of Johnism.

We're going to start addressing that need just as soon as I find out the name of the female jurist that Judge Gummo was harassing; I understand she just recently returned from Cancun and has a great tan that she was showing off around the hotel pool earlier today, and Harley insists that we, I'm sorry, that he have a chance to check her out before we get to work. (What a perv.)

Hey, my staff back at Headquarters tells me that the American Bar Association is having their annual convention in Cabo San Lucas later this year; I wonder if Judge Gummo is planning to attend? Better yet, I wonder if his female "buddy" is going to be there? Even better than that, I wonder what kind of swimsuit she wears?

Love and sandcastles,

PJTT
copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Rocky And Bullwinkle Meet H. G. Wells

If any of you out there are approximately the same age as your Pope Guy, (Pope John The Tall of the All John All The Time World Church, that's me), which is roughly that of a redwood tree, and lived through the turbulent decade of the '60s, (NINEteen, not EIGHTeen, you smart-alecks), you might remember the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon show. Pound for pound, one of the best cartoons ever, with humor that was WAY too sophisticated for kids (probably way too sophisticated for a lot of adults I know as well, then and now).

There were lots of aspects of the show that were notable, beyond the great running storyline of R and B fighting Boris Badenov and his sidekick, Natasha Fatale, who were spies for their country, Pottsylvania, and it's leader, Mr. Big, who Boris and Natasha also referred to as "Fearless Leader" (actually, they might have been two different characters; its been a long time and I really don't recall); there were lots of dumb cartoon sight gags and vignettes of Bullwinkle saying to Rocky, as he held an old top-hat in his hand, "Hey, Rocky, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat, " and then the moose would reach into the hat and pull out...well, sometimes he'd get the head of a rhinoceros (to which Bullwinkle remarked, "Whew, don't know my own strength") or the head of a male lion, which prompted Rocky to ask Bullwinkle, "Wrong hat?", to which Bullwinkle replied, "I take a 7-1/2." Silly stuff, but when you're a kid, great humor. (Hell, I think its still pretty funny now.)

One of my favorite recurring features on the show was a segment called "Peabody's Improbable History", whose main characters were Mr. Peabody, a lab-smock and glasses-wearing genius dog (I think he was a bagel, err, sorry, beagle) who could talk, and "his boy", Sherman, a lad of maybe eight or so. Peabody invented the "WABAC" machine (pronounced LAH, sorry, "Way Back"), a time machine that, unfortunately, only allowed someone to return to the past; there was no "D" on this transmission, only "R". Every week, Peabody and Sherman would "set the WABAC machine" to some historical date in the past, and then return to observe the occasion. Of course, there were always some problem with how things were happening, and every week Mr. Peabody and Sherman had to intervene in some manner to ensure that the historical event took place as it had been recorded in the history books.

So I got to thinking the other day that, wow, wouldn't having a "WayBack" Machine be a great way to go back to past times and, maybe, well, change things around a little, you know, maybe correct a few "mistakes", kinda' do the future generations (us) a little favor. (Think of it this way: if Barbara Pierce doesn't marry George H.W. Bush, then she never gets pregnant and has "W", and then we never have to have that asshole as the 43rd President. See where I'm going with this?)

Of course, that wouldn't work; it's the epitome of the law of unintended consequences. Besides, there's a theory in science-fiction that the past can't be altered; the fact that "W" was born, grew into an asshole, went into politics, ran for and became President and then sunk this country like almost no other President has before him would prove conclusively, so says the theory, that I wasn't able to go back in time and stop Babs from making a terrible mistake. But the idea makes for some great speculation.

I decided to have the Science Department here at the AJATTWC look into what it would take to create and build a "WayBack" Machine, how much it would cost, what were the best applications of the technology, etc. (I was also going to ask Dr. Bill O'Lading, who is the director of our Church-sponsored think-tank, the Center For The Serious Consideration Of Weighty Matters, to examine the potential psychological impact and implications of such a machine, but I didn't when I learned that Dr. O'Lading had the entire Center tied up on a new project; how to safely extricate BOTH of Billy Ray Cyrus' feet from his mouth, BRC having been the victim of the old "open mouth, insert foot" routine so often that his doctors came up with a name for the disease: "oralapedia".)

I'm prepared to devote the entire Science Department's annual budget ($58.26) and it's resources (a Bunsen burner, a half-dozen pipettes, which I assume are small pipes, a centrifuge producing bomb-grade "cheesonium", which is the primary element in the making of Atomic Food Bombs, and two lab techs with their degrees in some science or another from the Spiro Agnew University School Of Science Stuff And Massage Parlor) to the creation of this machine, so that it might be used for the good of mankind, or at least to go back and somehow make my parents gazillionaires. (Remember what Kevin Spacey's character in the movie "Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evil" said about the term "nouveau riche", which is French for "threesome" (no, its not): "It's the "riche" that counts.")

At the very least I'd like to use my version of the "WayBack" Machine to go back in time and somehow convince Linda Hachero, of Ft. Myers, FL, to reconsider her decision to have children, because if I had managed to screw up my daughter as badly as Ms. Hachero seems to have done with hers, I'd want to reexamine the whole premise of parenting.

According to WBBH-TV in Ft. Myers, "An honors student is accused of using a stolen gun to pistol-whip, then threaten her mother in order to get a sports car, according to Lee County Sheriff's Office reports." Said honor student is Rachel Hachero, the daughter of Linda.

Seems like L'il Rachel, who by the way is 17 years of age, was at a local car dealer and had her eye on an '04 Nissan 350Z, and called home to coax Mom into coming down to the dealership and cosigning for a loan to buy the car. When Mommy said no way, cute daughter Rachel threatened to kill her.

Dead, I assume, as in no more life, that's it, you're outta' here dead.

What a lovely young lady, and an honor student as well.

So L'il Rachel, not to be deterred by her mother's refusal to cooperate, returns home with a gun, which, according to the sheriff's report, she then proceeds to put to Mom's head and tells her they are returning to the dealership to fill out the papers and buy the 350Z. Now. Which they did.

Next day, Linda calls the Lee County Sheriff's Department to report her offspring, but tells deputies that she doesn't want to prosecute Rachel because "she is an honors student who has been accepted to several Ivy League colleges on scholarships". Fortunately, sheriff's deputies decided that "there was probable cause to arrest Rachel for aggravated assault with intent to commit a felony, one count of battery touch or strike and possession of a firearm by a person under the age of 18", despite her mother's reticence, which they did.

I love this part: "A check of the gun's serial number revealed it was stolen from a Lee County Port Authority Law Enforcement officer in early July 2010." Exactly how does a 17 year-old "honor student" come to have possession of a piece that once belonged to a Port Authority cop? Never mind, I'm pretty sure I don't want to know.

"Set the WABAC machine for June 16th, 1992, Sherman; that's a year before Linda Hachero meets Rachel's father. We have to go back and talk some sense into her."

Yeah, and good luck, guys; for the sake of the world, I hope you succeed. Because either this kid was the female version of Damien in the movie "The Omen", or Linda Hachero is the most inept excuse for a parent in modern history. How do you have a family so dysfunctional that your senior-in-high-school daughter thinks its okay to threaten her mother WITH A GUN when Mom won't cosign for a loan for a car that the little darling isn't legally old enough to own anyway? Holy Swapped At Birth, Batman, what the hell is that all about? These two deserve each other. Wow.

I haven't heard back from the Science Department guys as yet on their progress on the idea of the WayBack Machine, and I'm not surprised; they've been really tied up working on a project to invent a machine that allows the user to talk into an instrument and have their voice be heard by another person miles away using a similar instrument. They're going to call it the "talkaphone", and from what they tell me...hang on, the Popephone is ringing...

"...JTT...hey, Mike, how's the gerbil-golf game comin'?...what?...whatta' you mean "its already been done"? by who?...never heard of him...well, you better get the message to those dumbshits in Science, they're down there jerking off and spending Church money like a bunch of drunken Republicans...I can't believe it...how long have you known this?...never mind, just get those assholes working on something that pays, okay?...yeah, today...yeah...yeah, hey, I really like the Big Hooters Monthly you sent over, thanks...okay, lemme' know...yeah, talk to later..." Shit.

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one who went to North Carolina); he tells me those jerkoffs down in Science have been working on inventing something that's already been invented; boy, how irresponsible is that?

Its almost as bad as raising a daughter that threatens you with a gun when you don't do what she wants...or as bad as the daughter who does it.

Love and Dr. Spock,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

One Guy To Another, Nice Job

(Another blast from the past; today's post originally appeared on my blog back on 2/19. Enjoy.)

 

The subject of today's post is a little, how can I say, ahh, disgusting, so if you're squeamish about bodily functions and gross smells and sounds, you know, all the things that guys love and crack up over, you might want to go back to Facebook or wherever.

For those of you who follow my blog regularly (all several of you), my boon companion, best buddy and official canine of the All John All The Time World Church, of which I am the Popester, is a 13 year-old Golden Retriever and all around good guy, commonly and affectionately known as the Harley Dog (see picture <--, oops, sorry -->). Harley has been with me for seven years now, and he's more fun than a couple of midgets, a pogo stick and a pound of Parkay margarine. In the winter, we live together here in LA (pronounced LAH) and in the off-season months we fly off to the Sargasso Sea in the official atomic powered rocket ship of the Pope of the AJATTWC, the Royal Unionship Kidding, or RU Kidding for short, to our summer home on the island of Snacilbuper (pronounced SNACK-ILL-BUPER), which is Republicans backwards, (and which now that I think of it, is pretty much how most Republicans, and most Democrats for that matter, seem to do things these days), where we walk the beach, throw sticks, chase balls, belch and fart a lot and do a lot of other gross guy stuff.

As much fun as the Harley Dog is, and he can make me laugh like very few people I know, he does have his, how can I say, less than finer moments; he doesn't drool very much, but his breath could repulse an iguana, and he has a habit of licking areas on his big, furry self that I am unable to lick on myself, causing me a great deal of envy.

The worst thing about Harley is his occasional bouts of, okay, this is where it starts to get icky, flatulence. Its not often, at least the really bad stuff, but often enough, like say, once a week or so, when, all of a sudden, whoa, and tears start to come to my eyes, and the people downstairs from me start complaining, and sometimes the LAFD shows up, thinking there's a gas main leak somewhere; it gets pretty gritty, I gotta' tell you.

For the life of me I can't figure out what causes it; he eats the same, dry food every day, I NEVER give him table scraps because he already weighs a 100 pounds as it is, so unless gulping the air here in LA is the causative factor, I don't get it.

I rolled over in bed this morning, about 2:00am, a) because, like every night about that time, I had to pee, and b) my ENTIRE apartment was enveloped in this miasma, which was palpable, this ungodly smell, emanating from my dog's nether regions. It literally woke me up from a sound sleep. You'll pardon my being a little gross here, but the aroma was pungent, thick almost, like cheese that's gone bad or that wet towel you left in your gym bag at the bottom of your closet and forgot about until three months later. I mean, it was nasty. And although he doesn't say much, I always get the impression, like most guys after they've wafted a good one, that Harley is kind of smug and proud of himself.

Now, being a typical disgusting male pig person, I fart with some frequency, but I've noticed as I've gotten older that it's mostly just wind, and little aroma. I mean, on a good day I can toot the first eight bars of the "1812 Overture" but the paint stays on the walls and there's no lawsuits involved. Besides, it just the two of us, so who cares. (My Dad, like most Dads I suspect, had his little "fart ritual"; sitting in his chair in the living room, he'd lift up one cheek, let'er rip, and then look at my Mom and go, "Ooops, that slipped", which, of course, disgusted my mother to no end and cracked me up, both of which I'm sure my Dad thought were good reasons to continue doing it. As is so often the case, the acorn did not fall far from the tree.)

But not the Harley Dog, no tooting of classics for him; he is the embodiment of the old joke about being SBD: silent but deadly.

Harley came to live with me when I was well into my '50s, having spent the first six years of his life with my daughter; it's a long story of how he made the sojourn from the flatlands of Illinois to the sun-drenched San Fernando Valley, and I won't bore you with it, (now don't get all sentimental, he didn't run the whole way out here, he came in a cage in the cargo hold of an airplane) but Harley was my first, and only ever, pet. (Mom and Dad didn't know from pets.) So while I was intellectually aware that animals, particularly dogs, emit methane gas, but it's one thing to know about something, and it's another to experience it first hand, much like reading about an elephant in a book and then seeing one of those big bastards up close for the first time; it's just not the same. (Robert Heinlein, the famous science fiction writer, once remarked in one of his books that a mouse was as much of a biological miracle as an elephant, but didn't have near the visual impact.)

I had no idea how bad dog flatulence could be; I just never was exposed to it previously, so the first time Harley let loose, I was surprised, and I hate to say it, but again, being a typical "guy", I was a little impressed. I mean, all that odor from simple dry dog food, hey, one guy to another, that's a great job. I gave Harley a fist bump and we laughed our asses off. Once my eyes stopped tearing up. (I'll never forget the time, about a week after I got him, that he walked over to where I was sitting, looked me in the eye and yarked up everything he'd eaten that day, for no apparent reason, other than to baptize me and his new home, I guess. That was almost seven years ago, and he's never done it again since.)

Okay, enough gross-outs about dog farts; I promise tomorrow's post will deal with some subject that's a little more genteel, although at this point I have no idea what that subject will be. I have to close now; there's a committee of my neighbors at my front door and they want to talk to me about the horrendous odor emanating from my apartment. In the meantime, my partner is lying on the floor, with a smug look on his furry face; who me?

Love and eberts,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.