...And The Oscar Goes To...

Ring...ring...rin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, here we go:

ACT I, SCENE I

Office scene, with the Pope, Harley Dog

Open with P sitting at desk, facing camera, working; H rushes in from door behind Pope, and exclaims,

H: "Pope John, the peasants are revolting!"

The Pope, without even looking up from the paper he's reading, replies, "Aw, come on, Harley, they aren't that bad."

H: (agitated, obviously upset) "No, you don't understand, the citizens are rising up against government tyranny, high taxes, crummy working conditions and a shortage of Lindsay Lohan films. There's protests and marches going on all over the country, and the uprising is spreading as fast as the Charlie Sheen's latest stupid comment over the 'Net. Pope, you have to do something!"

SCENE II

Street scene, with Protestor #1, Protestor #2

Scene opens to "mob action" on a street somewhere, lots of people milling around, shouting and waving signs of protest. Someone throws a "Molotov cocktail" with a burning wick against the foundation of a building, but it dies and the fire doesn't spread.

Protestor #1, to Protestor #2, who threw the "cocktail": "Hey, what did you just throw against that building?"

P #2: "It was one of those "Mazeltov" cocktails, you know, like a home-made bomb. You fill the bottle with matzo, stick a fuse in and light it, and then toss it."

P #1: "That's a "Molotov" cocktail, not "Mazeltov", you douche-bag, and you fill the bottle with gasoline, not matzo!"

P #2: "Shit, no wonder it didn't burn."

SCENE III

Scene dissolves back to office with P and H.

H: "Pope John, the people are in desperate need of a leader to step forth and, well, you know, lead; the government is in chaos..."

P: (interrupting) "No its not, its in Washington."

Harley shakes his furry head in disbelief.

H: "How did you ever become Pope of the All John All The Time World Church? Did you cheat on the IQ part of your job application?"

P: "Yeah." Shakes HIS head in disbelief. "Doesn't everyone?"

H: (Still shaking his head in disbelief) "You're the Pope, for shit sakes, you're supposed to be above that kind of stuff."

P: "Yeah, but if I hadn't gotten the gig, you and I wouldn't have the all the perks, the Kidding, the Dee Dee, all the women..."

H: (interrupting) "What women?"

P: "Okay, forget the women. Hey, we get to go all over the galaxy and visit all kinds of strange new worlds, hob-nob with planetary big-wigs, we always get comps on the rooms and food, come on, this is a great gig, except for those stupid "missionary" trips the Bored is always sending us on. Anyway, what do you want me to do about the riots? Its not my fault the peasants are revolting."

H: "Come on, Pope, they're not that bad."

SCENE IV

Scene dissolves back to same "mob action", same two protestors, still talking to each other while other rioters run all around them. The scene is general chaos, which is where the government is located.

P #1: "Hey, did you hear that Lindsay Lohan has been hired to play the wife of mobster John Gotti, Jr. in the new biopic about Gotti's father, John, Sr., who was the head of the Gambino Mafia family before he was convicted of FIVE murders in 1991?"

P #2: "No shit, sounds like a great role for her. When's it coming out?"

P #1: "Sometime next year. Just as soon as LiLo gets out of jail and they can start shooting." (P #1 raises his eyebrows.) "Great example of type-casting, huh?"

Scene dissolves back to Pope's office, with Harley and the Pope,

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

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

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

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

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

Love and Oscars,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Enjoy Your Holiday (And Be Good)

To all my loyal followers and friends: have a pleasant and spiritual Passover/Easter.

The Pope is taking the weekend off. And so is the Harley Dog, although its hard to imagine how Harley could do any less than he already does, but whatever. (I'm not paying him much either, for that matter.)

We're back on Monday.

Love and holidays,

PJTT

The Eight Dwarves

Happy Thursday, assuming its Thursday wherever you're reading this. If it isn't, happy Thursday anyway.

Normally your Pope (that would be me) doesn't "blog" about politics, at least not overtly. Yeah, okay, I take some pokes at politicos from time to time; let's face it, as goofy and ridiculous as most of our elected and wanting-to-be-elected representatives are, they're pretty easy targets. Honestly, that's just one of several reasons to not make politicians the subject of any of my essays: its just too easy. And as the leader of the All John All The Time World Church, maintaining my decorum is of vital importance to my "image", so I stay away from the mudpits of politics. Most of the time. (You guys didn't know I had an image to maintain, did you?)

But I thought this might be a time to provide a little leadership for my flock of faithful followers; hey, if the Roman Catholics, the Methodists, the Episcopalians and all the other religious "sects" can get away with paying no taxes and yet still continue to advocate for their particular candidates/issues, so can I. (The 1st Amendment of our Constitution talks about the "separation of church and state" and I think the Supreme Court has gone a long way out-of-bounds to keep the two entities distinct; the 1st also spells out the right to free speech, in no uncertain terms. That's all well and good, but for my money, if you're tax-exempt, you have no right to comment on the workings of a government that you do not support financially.)

So I was reading an op-ed piece in the L.A. Times this morning, by a guy named Doyle McManus, who I don't know a lot about, other than he writes a column for the Times several days a week, with which I often agree, but he briefly touched on each of the current "hopefuls" for the Republican Party Presidential nomination in 2012, and discussed their chances to becoming the Party nominee.

Here's the list of the potential contenders for the nod from their Party, in no particular order; FYI, the comments below are mine, not Mr. McManus':

Mitt Romney

Newt Gingrich

Tim Pawlenty

Haley Barbour

Sarah Palin

Mike Huckabee

Donald Trump

Michelle Bachmann

(I'd call them the Seven Mental Dwarves, which is obviously the diametric opposite of "mental giants", but there's eight of them; I could eliminate Donald Trump's name immediately, because he has about as much chance at securing the nomination as Harley does, and that would leave seven, but...oh well, let's go with eight and see what happens. Oh, and FYI, for those of you who haven't met him, the "Harley" in the last sentence is my sidekick, roommate and the back-up navigator onboard my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, the Harley Dog. Harley typically shuns politics as well.)

Okay, let's take them in order, though to tell the truth, I don't think it will make any difference what sequence in which I talk about them, because this is the most undistinguished looking bunch of Presidential hopefuls I have ever seen. This group makes that bunch of Einsteins from back in 2000 look like "statesmen", for goodness sake.

Mitt Romney-

            I cannot vote for a person who a) is named after a baseball glove and b) is a member of a religion that was founded by a guy who claimed to find "golden" tablets from heaven that were left on earth in upper NY state with instructions to form a religion; by the way, the guy's name was Joseph Smith and the "angel" that led him to the golden tablets was named Moroni. (I assume the angel was Italian.) This is the guy you want meeting with other world leaders, people like Putin of Russia, Sarkozy of France, Sheen of Hollywood, (???) and Ahmadinejad of Iran? Sorry, but Mitt strikes me as a lightweight totally out of his class. And there's going to be a lot of Tea-Partiers out there who won't want him as their "guy" because of the health-care plan he pushed through the Massachusetts legislature when he was governor of that state a few years ago; it's too much like "Obamacare" for those folks, and Mitt can't explain how it came to be in his state. No, not Mitt, not ever.

Newt Gingrich-

            Is "Newt" short for "Newton" or what? And is this the guy all the witches go see when they need an "eye of newt" for their various spells and potions? Does Newt have more than two eyes? Is there one in the back of his head? (As a kid I was convinced my mother had eyes in the back of her head; they made a nice offset to the third boob she had growing on her chin.) Newt has a number of ex-wives, and in fact, no one is quite sure how many, and he was accused of having a "dalliance" while he was married with one of his staff members (I'm assuming a female type), back during the days of the Bill Clinton mess, and was roundly criticized for criticizing BC for his inability to keep his johnson in his pants, when it was obvious that Newt couldn't behave himself any better than that douche-bag Clinton. Serious case of the pot calling the kettle green. (???) What staunch, upstanding Christian right-wing conservative is going to vote for Newt? He probably has a little better chance at being nominated than "the Donald", but not much. Mostly I think he exists to provide a noisy background for the other "candidates".

Tim Pawlenty-

            Governor of Minnesota? Isn't that the same state that elected Jesse "The Body" Ventura as their governor a few years ago? Is this the same guy that doesn't want the national debt ceiling raised AND has a problem with where President Obama was born, after the State Of Hawaii has provided NUMEROUS samples of Obama's birth certificate, showing him to be a natural-born citizen, and yet this is the signature issue that Pawlenty wants us to know him by in these early stages of the campaign? Come on, Tim, how about we talk about meaningful deficit reduction, a comprehensive health care law, some kind of effective national policy on immigration, jobs and Wall Street or any of the other gazillion important problems for which this country needs answers. We've got plenty of serious issues to address without manufacturing one as stupid as "the President was born in Lower Zimbabwe and doesn't qualify to be President because he isn't native-born". Geez.

Haley Barbour-

            Former successful Washington lobbyist, former head of the Republican National Committee, current governor of Mississippi, suspected racist and general blowhard. You know, if Barbour becomes the GOP standard-bearer, then all the Democrats in the country should rejoice. For an election that is taking place in the midst of a national trend against "politics as usual" (see the landslide for the Republicans in the 2008 Congressional elections), he has all the wrong credentials (see above). I'm no expert (on politics; I am expert at gerbil golf) but this guy, beyond the obvious baggage of his "position" on race, is a non-starter. Okay, he has the Klan vote, but what else? No, this Dwarve is fooling himself with his aspirations.

            Thank God.

Sarah Palin-

            On the several occasions I have mentioned Ms. Palin in one of my posts, I have referred to her as Sarah Plain And Loud, a takeoff on the Glenn Close made-for-TV movie from a few years ago that was called "Sarah, Plain And Tall". Actually, I'm rather hoping that the Snacilpuber Ytrap  (that's Republican Party backwards) nominate her; between Sarah, her husband, Mr. Sarah, her unwed teenage mother, spokesperson for "teen abstinence" and social gadfly daughter, Bristol and her occasionally spotted-in-the-background ex-boyfriend and father to her son, Tripp, Levi Johnston, plus the revolving cast of characters from her home state of Alaska, yeah, I figure SPAL is good for a ongoing laugh riot if she is nominated.

            And I can't imagine why anyone would have a problem with Sarah as Presidential material just because her elected experience begins and ends with the mayorship of a small Alaskan town and her abbreviated term as Governor of Alsaka, which she cut short by her own volition. She has no foreign policy, other than saying that she can see Russia from her backdoor; she has no domestic policy, other than being a "mama grizzly", which I assume means she is furry, weighs in excess of eight hundred pounds and has breath that would knock a vulture off a meat wagon. And although I can't provide proof for this assertion, I'm pretty sure she has the IQ of soap. Yeah, Sarah, you'll get my vote.

Mike Huckabee-

            What makes you think he's any better now than he was in 2008 when he ran the first time and couldn't get nominated? If you want Christian fundamentalism as the guiding light that directs the actions of your next President, Mike is your man. Hey, it shouldn't be a problem that his only claim to fame is having been Governor of the worst state in the Union for a couple of years? (That's Arkansas, by the way, although it didn't hurt Scum-Bag Bill any back in 1992.) Once again, no foreign policy, no intelligent domestic policy, other than "more Bibles in our schools" and minimal background for the position he desires. Great candidate, folks.

Michelle Bachmann-

            Lots of mouth in such a small package. Another "Tea Party" hopeful. Slightly better chance than "the Donald" for securing the nomination, but not much. She's actually more strident than SPAL, if that's possible.

Donald Trump-

            Please tell me you're kidding. Please. I don't care how much money this guy has made, and believe me, despite the opinions of most of the people in this country, the ability to make a lot of money doesn't necessarily translate to high intelligence, political competence or astuteness, Donald Trump has about as much business being President as my dog. And I'd trust Harley a lot further; I'm pretty sure he's not a crook. Donald? Not as sure.

Since I didn't advocate for any of the above "candidates", but merely discussed their various "qualifications", I feel that I didn't abuse the church/state separation thing. I might have screwed with the boundaries of good taste, but that's nothing out of the ordinary; hell, I do that every time I write a post.

I hope the open and frank examination of the aspiring Republican Party presidential nominees has and will help you in making your choices for our next leader. I just hope, fervently, that the next President of the United States is as good at his job as I am at mine. (And as good-looking.)

You know, it just occurred to me...President Pope John The Tall. You have to admit, it has a nice ring. And if I got the gig, I wouldn't have to buy a new Popemobile either; they already have several of those huge limos in which they drag the President around, so I wouldn't need one.

Oh, and ready for this...Vice President Harley Dog.

Hey, we elected that total sleaze-bag Spiro Agnew VP back in '68, how would Harley be any worse than that? At least Harley isn't taking kickbacks from construction firms in Maryland. Although that new diamond-studded collar he just got recently makes you wonder.

Never mind, I'm too honest.

Love and ballots,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Pooping In Style, or Lost In A Home Show In Dayton OH

My last post on Thursday, 4/14, told the story of an institution in Iceland called the Phallological Museum; the exhibits in this museum are various mammal phalluses, including those of a sperm whale, a Canadian sea lion and most recently, the "pickled penis" of a elderly Icelandic gentleman who willed his "willie" to the institute upon his death (pretty tough to will your johnson to someone or something before you pass on; and wouldn't The Pickled Penis be a great name for a British-style pub someplace, like maybe in, say, Britain?).

So its going to be hard (pardon the unintentional pun and, hey, speaking of puns, aren't you guys proud of me for not making a bad joke about phalluses and "sperm" whales in the last paragraph?) to come up with a topper for that report, but your Pope (that would be me) and the outstanding staff here at the All John All The Time World Church are going to give it their best shot, just like Pat Benatar wanted you to hit her with, back in the '80's. (And given the opportunity, I would have gladly obliged; Patty was WAY hot.)

According to my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one that did those goofy Hanes commercials with that douche-bag Charlie Sheen), the Bored of Elders of the AJATTWC has decided that they would like Harley and I to attend the crowning of Ttrrleek 4rHt as the new Gorberk (kind of like our bishop, but with several more arms and legs) of the region of Zithermusic on the planet Lowawatha. (I guess our trade imbalance with the Lowawathians is a concern for the government, so they asked the Bored to send us there to "schmooze the shit outta' them", in a quasi-diplomatic way, of course. Lowawatha is also known as the LamaBall Capitol Of The Universe.)

So I told the AJATTWC ground crew guys to get my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, or RU Kidding for short, (I'm thinking of having a sister ship to the Kidding built: the Royal Unionship Peanutsintheshell, or RU Nuts for short; more on that later), ready for the hop tomorrow to Lowawatha. (Lowawatha is in the Luffertoots Nebulae of the 4th Colocynth Quadrant, which is approximately 13.56 parsecs from Earth, or about two days of travel; I'm bringing several new books, and one of my guitars, and I've got a new comic book for Harley. When I showed it to him, he acted like he was insulted; he figures since he's the back-up navigator, he's entitled to access to the Captain's Library, which he can't have, because that's where I keep the back issues of Canine Health, and those anatomically correct drawings of the female dog's "private areas" drive him nuts.) (Oh, by the way, "Harley" is the Harley Dog, the "official" canine of the Pope Guy, back-up navigator onboard the RU Kidding and my roommate.)

So its a good night's sleep for your Pope and his band of merry men, and off tomorrow to Lowawatha; more later from there.

(...late the next day...)

...ring...ring...rin

"PJ...Mike, what the hell happened?...wadda' mean, 'they're still looking into it'? That sounds like a government enquiry, for chrissake...I don't give a shit, I want this explained today, now, DO YOU HEAR ME?...I'm not upset, I'm REAL pissed, there's a difference...how can those guys screw up this bad? They were supposed the program the Kidding for the region of Zithermusic on the planet Lowawatha, and I wind up in Dayton OH? HOW THE (very bad word here) DID I WIND UP IN DAYTON OH, WOULD YOU PLEASE ASK THOSE HAPPY ASSHOLES IN THE BACK?!? Shit...okay, okay, I'm calm now, I'm okay...no, I can't leave until the inquiry by the FAA is complete, probably tomorrow...well I didn't exactly file a flight plan for (another very bad word here) DAYTON OH, NOW DID I?!?...never mind, just make sure somebody has some answers when I get back tomorrow, and send my condolences to Ttrrleek and explain what happened...whatta' mean, 'what should I tell him', tell him the truth, damn it, I, wait a minute, we'll look like major crankshafts if you tell him what REALLY happened, yeah, you're right, make something up, just make sure you tell me about it later...yeah, gotta' go...let's have lunch at the Beaver's Den on Thursday...cool."

Don't ask me, because I don't know.

We lifted off this morning, nice as you please, the HyperAromaDrive (that's the special, super, mega amazing drive thingie, in conjunction with the floridated kanooten valve, that enables the Kidding to reach speeds exceeding the Speed of Aroma) was purring away, and we were open for business, baby.

But a few minutes into the flight, I knew something was wrong when the auto-pilot started the landing sequence; it was WAY too soon to be in Zithermusic, Lowawatha.

And you know why it seemed too soon to be in Zithermusic, Lowawatha? Because it was, WAY too soon. We landed in Dayton OH, oh my stars and buckets. (Roughly translated, that means "oh shit".) What the hell is in Dayton OH, besides the Harley Dog and I and a bunch of Daytonionians?

So we found a hotel that would accept a furry roommate (I used to have to do the same thing with one of my ex-girlfriends), we checked in and I thought, well, let's just see what the hell is in Dayton OH?

Guess what? Not much.

But it does get better, surprisingly.

There was a home improvement show going on in the convention center on site, so I decided to take a stroll over, lacking anything else better to do. (Harley stayed in our room, doing the crossword puzzle from the Dayton Daily News.)

As I perused the what seemed to be endless aisles of new sinks, cabinets, paneling, paint, siding, lawn products, garage-door openers, bathtubs and every conceivable home improvement product known to the universe, suddenly, I saw it...

...right in front of me, on a dazzling display of lights and color, there it was...

...the Numi Commode by Kohler. (...and a mighty choir breaks into the "Hallelujah Chorus" from Handel's "Messiah"...) (you know, the one that goes, "Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallayeluuhjah", and so on and on and on. Handel wrote much better music then he did lyrics.)

The Numi Commode by Kohler; simply, the Rolls-Royce, the Lear Jet, the Los Angeles Lakers (???) of that bathroom fixture, using the term any way you like, the humble toilet.

This sucker will make you want to poop several times a day, just for the experience; I mean, this is, truly, a throne.

According to the company website, the Numi will "bring you the finest in personal comfort and cleansing", with, are you ready?

...motion-activated lid and seat

...advanced bidet functionality (with adjustable spray patterns)

...integrated air-dryer as well as a deodorizer

...heated seat and foot warmer

...and best of all, built-in speakers and an MP3 jack (although the way things smell when I'm in there, the last thing I want to do is sit on the commode and listen to the latest recording of Rihanna or Coldplay. I don't read in there for the same reason; I'm a big believer in do what needs to be done and get out).

Its even environmentally sound: according to the magazine Consumer Reports, "this WaterSense-certified toilet uses dual-flush technology, which allows you to select a partial flush for liquid waste and a full flush for solid waste."

Throw in a pair of tickets to a Dodgers/Giants game and you're all there.

All this for the low, low price of...$6390.00. (My first brand new car didn't cost $6390.00; yeah, okay, it was a Ford Model T, but that's not the point.) I don't care, I have to have one of these babies; I am SO talking to the Bored when I get back.

(...late the next day...)

The Bored of Elders of the AJATTWC denied my request to have a Numi Commode by Kohler installed in the Papal shi, err, excuse me, bathroom.

I am very upset.

I'm sure I can get a Papal discount; you know, one of those "Kohler: Official Toilet Provider To Pope John The Tall" kind of an advertising thing. Or maybe they have a "Seniors" discount.

Shit. (Another unintentional pun.)

I just want to know one thing, okay?

"Swashbuckling"? How does one buckle a swash?

I'm dying to know that.

Love and "put the seat down, you jerk",

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Taking A Stand On The Issues (Second Edition)

(Okay, your Pope, John the Tall, is currently suffering from a severe case of "writer's block" and hasn't a clue what to write about for today's post; however, since I didn't want to leave all my loyal followers without a day where they had none of the soothing words of Johnism to bolster their pathetic lives, I decided to rerun an essay I wrote back in late January. I hope this helps.)

 

As Pope of the All John All The Time World Church, I feel that it is my duty, as I believe it is the duty of all our moral leaders, to take a stand on an issue and actively advocate for that belief. I believe it is incumbent on us all, but particularly heads of major religions such as the All John All The Time World Church, to speak out about injustice, about inequality and about how Frank McCourt, the owner of the L.A. Dodgers, should just sell the team and disappear back into the rat hole from which he crawled several years ago, just before purchasing and becoming the co-owner of the franchise, along with his wife, Jamie, who, subsequently, was apparently caught by Frank while engaged in various adult activities with her chauffer. (Not THE chauffer, HER chauffer.)

Needless to say, Frank took exception to this type of activity between his spouse and an employee, and sued Jamie for divorce, claiming mental cruelty (that one will be hard to prove, given the general lack of "mental" going inside Frank's head), alienation of feelings and severe mopery. (I have heard "mopery" described as someone exposing himself to a parking meter, but I'm not sure that's accurate. I couldn't find the word in Webster's New World Dictionary Of The American Language. Not to be confused with the English language, I assume. George Bernard Shaw, the Irish playwright, once described the United States and Britain as two great countries separated by a common language.) Yeah Frank, sell the team so you can payoff Jamie and then slink back to Boston where you came from. They would love to have you back, but then, what would you expect from people that are Red Sox/Patriots fans.

As your Pope, I have agonized over an issue for some time now, and I feel that, in accordance with all those fancy things I said in the opening paragraph, I must now come out and speak my peace on...alien induction.

That's right, boys and girls, alien induction. Please do not accuse me of xenophobia or racism; I have absolutely no problem with beings from other planets. Be they the Green Turtle Men of the planet Zatox, my home planet (see my profile to the right <--, oops, sorry,-->), or the Testicles people (for those of you who are not familiar with our other world friends, that name is pronounced "TES-TA-CLEES") from inside the Nebula of Scrotum, nor any other traveler from the Outer Limits or the Twilight Zone. I have encountered many of these fine alien beings during my missions onboard the RU Kidding, my atomic-powered rocket ship, and have hoisted many a fine mug of Rxdytzsdo beer (that's Budweiser in Cerulean; this Rxdy's for you) with my fellow space adventurers. I hold no ill will for any of our brothers, sisters and host surrogate tenderloins from out there beyond our solar system.

But I see no reason why they should be inducted into our military services. Alien induction is not the American way. America should populate its armed forces with strong, red-blooded young men and women of native birth, not green-blooded Fliptans or the three-handed Marplegloogers of the planet Huptwothreefour (the only creatures I know of who can play cards and with themselves at the same time). I believe that alien induction is a threat to...wait a moment, there's an incoming call on my Popephone...JTT...yeah, I'm working on it now...its what?...ABduction...shit...yeah, thanks...

Never mind.

Love and green cards,

PJTT

A Lazy Sunday Morning (And I'm Not Doing The Pope Today)

Its around 9:00am on Sunday, 4/17, and its my favorite kind of weekend day; its sunny, the temperature here in the infamous San Fernando Valley is in the low 70's and there's a nice breeze "blowing warm, out of the South, over my shoulder" (thank you, David Crosby). I've been baking since early this morning (hey, just because I'm the Pope Dude of the All John All The Time World Church doesn't mean I have a huge staff of folks to look after my every need, say like Oprah Winfrey, who I suspect has a person on her staff whose sole duty is to wipe Oprah's nose when it runs), so, yeah, I was baking blueberry muffins (from a mix, I'm no Emeril Lagasse).

Well, I'm done baking and the Lakers/Hornets game doesn't start until 12:30pm, so I've got some time to use to come up with a post for today, but you know what?

It's just too nice a day to sit at my desk and play Pope; I'm gonna' go wash the Popemobile. And I suspect Harley will continue to guard the front balcony, as he has been doing for the last several hours. Besides, I just heard from my consigliore that the Bored of Elders of the AJATTWC has plans to send HD and I off into the stratosphere someplace on on some kind of urgent Church business next week, so the days off may be few and far between for a while.

And hey, even God rested on the seventh day.

You guys enjoy the rest of your weekend.

Love and leisure,

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.