Mortimer The Kaoliang Parrot And The LamaBall Finals

"...so here's what I'm thinking, okay? You, me and the Harley Dog jump in the Kidding, haul ass to KrylonA42, do the dedication gig, jump back onboard and head over to Lowawatha and catch the LamaBall finals. It shouldn't take more than a day to get there from KA42, puts us there on 5698.32, a whole day early almost, whatta' say, how's that sound?...cool...ARE YOU READY FOR SOME LAMABAAAAALL?!?...cool...okay, do me favor, I gotta' take HD outside, get the guys to start working on the Kidding, all right?...thanks...yeah...hey, tell them I said to make sure they stock the kitchen and ESPECIALLY the 'fridge the RIGHT way...they'll know what I mean, believe me...okay, call me later, yeah...yeah."

Way cool.

As the Pope Guy of the All John All The Time World Church, I get invited to all kinds of ceremonies and conferences and various spiritual get-togethers all over the Galaxy, things like the coronation of new heads of state, or the installation of Bishops and Gerborks (that's what they call "bishops" on Hercyon III), or symposiums of "religious" leaders, an occasional shopping center opening, you know, stuff like that. So when my staff informed me that I had been asked to attend the dedication of the new cathedral on KrylonA42, I instructed them to respond that Harley Dog and I would be delighted to attend.

(To those of you who are new to the "soothing balm of Johnism", I should tell you that "Harley", who I mentioned back a sentence ago (seems longer than that, doesn't it?) is the Harley Dog, the backup navigator onboard my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, which we call the RU Kidding for short, just a little "outer space" humor there, as well as being my sidekick and roommate. There's a picture of him to the right, I believe, yeah, right there --->.)

When the staff folks told me about the dedication, I didn't really pay any attention to the date, until a few days ago, when I was going through The Papal Appointment Book and I noticed that the ceremony was scheduled for 5610.00, and, just a parsec or two away from KrylonA42, where the dedication was taking place, was Lowawatha, where the LamaBall Finals were scheduled to begin 5910.00, just three days later. I backtracked and read the entry again...yep, 5610.00 on KA42, and then if I want, Pope on an atomic powered trampoline, quick jump to Lowawatha and the Finals.

The LamaBall Finals, which this year include MY team, the Terran Terminators, is the Galactic championship of the InterGalactic LamaBall Conference, which is headquartered on Lowawatha and is the official league and governing body for the sport of LamaBall.

(LamaBall is a hybrid sport, a combination of gerbil golf and polo, except that instead of hitting gerbils off a second floor balcony, as in normal gerbil golf, in LamaBall, which is played on a large field, two teams of riders mounted on Earth lamas, wielding large "bats" rather than various-length clubs, as in gerbil golf, attempt to strike the gerbils as they run alongside them, thus moving them downfield, as in polo, except that, to score a "goal", the gerbil has to be "putted" into a funnel-shaped hole in the ground, while the defenders attempt to stop the shot. Its an exciting game, and very fast-paced, although I suspect the gerbils aren't all that crazy about it.)

So this is cool, me, Harley and Mike, who is my consigliore, off on the Kidding and on the ground at Lowawatha for the Finals. (By the way, Mike is the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan, and no, not the one that played for North Carolina; Mike has been my "connie" since I became the AJATTWC Pope Dude.)

We're "wheels up" at dawn tomorrow.

(...the following week...)

What a great trip; the dedication was boring but the reception afterwards was pretty good, especially those dancers from Anopheles, whoa, and the Finals were awesome, although the shithead 'Nators lost in the second round, the punks, but all in all, we had a lotta' fun. At least I did; Harley spent most of the trip trying to make a move on a Krillion ebert; I think Harley may need to have his eyes checked.

I ran into an old friend at the dedication ceremony, the Torgar of Resorcin, Mott the Hoople, Jr.; I hadn't seen Hoop since the Girl Scout cookie fiasco a few years ago. We were swapping BS about this and that, and after about an hour of non-stop gross guy stuff, he looked at me and said, hey, I've got a good one for you...

...according to Hoop, and he swears this really happened, one of his SubTorgars, Mandal of Ladnam, had recently gotten himself a new pet, a Kaoliang parrot. Now, if you've never seen a Kaoliang parrot, let me describe one to you: they're large birds, with a rounded beak unlike the hooked beak of an Earth parrot, about .5 meters long and weighing around three kilos. They're mainly orange, with a brilliant dark green "comb" across their foreheads and occasionally dark green and dark maroon stripes across the wings. They have two great claims to fame: they can be taught to talk, and they have no legs. They stay on a perch by wrapping their, umm, johnsons around whatever they're perching on.

So Mandal goes out and gets himself a really nice Kaoliang parrot, takes it home and installs it on it's own perch in a well-lit corner of his wife's and his bedroom. His wife wasn't crazy about the bird, but Mandal was so pleased that she went along with it. Besides, she had other things on her mind, as Mandal learned some time later.

As SubTorgar, Mandal was required to be out of town frequently, and he thought the parrot, whom he named Mortimer, after his older sister, (Mandal's, not Mort's) would be some company to his wife, who spent most of the time he was gone alone. The owner of the pet shop where Mandal had gotten Mortimer had already taught it to speak Quonset, the language used on Resorcin, so the parrot would be able to speak and hold conversations with the Mrs. in Mandal's periodic absences.

Sounds like a plan, right?

So Mandal goes off on Resorcinianian business, and is gone for several days. According to Hoop, when he returned home, he walked into the house and did the usual, Honey, I'm Home thing and got no answer. Thinking his wife may be out on an errand, he went into the kitchen, expecting to find a note, because his wife had known he would be home around this time.

No note.

In the meantime, he can hear Mortimer back in the bedroom, whistling to himself. Shit, the bird can talk and see, maybe he knows where the wife went. So Mandal walks back to the bedroom, says hello to Mort and asks, hey, seen the wife?

Mort immediately begins to get a little agitated. Hey, he says to Mandal, your wife took off outta' here about two days ago, with a young Martian-looking guy in a big Mercedes GroundCruiser. What?, Mandal says.

"Yeah, this Martian-looking guy showed up here a few nights ago, had himself a bottle of champagne in his hand and lechery on his mind, yes sir."

"Whatta' ya' mean, 'lechery on his mind'? What happened?" Mandal demanded.

"Well," says Mortimer the Kaoliang parrot, "they was sittin' out in the living room, 'course I couldn't see them from back here in the bedroom, but I could hear them laughing and cuttin' up, no problem. They were giggling like kids, and hittin' that champagne pretty hard from the sounds of it." The parrot paused to catch his breath; he was starting to get a little worked up.

"So then what happened?" Mandal asked, raising his voice a little; he was starting to get a little worked up himself.

"Oh, well, I'm sittin' here mindin' my own business, when these two lovebirds come chargin' in the bedroom, laughing to beat all and carryin' on. Funny thing, they were both about half-naked; he had his shirt off and your Mrs. was down to her bra, her panties and pantyhose. Man, was that somethin' to see." By now the parrot is bobbing up and down on his perch with excitement; it probably didn't feel too bad either.

"Yeah, yeah?" says Mandal, in a slightly hysterical voice.

"Well, next thing I know, these two are on the bed, he's tryin' to pull off what's left of her clothes, all the while she's trying like hell to get his pants undone and down, and they're still laughin' like hyenas, and about the time they both get almost naked, Holy Porn Star, Batman, wow." The parrot stopped talking, leaned over to his water container on the perch beside him and took a long drink, coming up for air once or twice before he finished.

By now Mandal is beside himself, which is a really tough position to maintain for any length of time, and is practically screaming at the bird to go on with his story.

"Man, you wouldn't believe," the parrot said, gulping down the last swallow of water. "It was amazing. They settled down some and started kissing and rubbing each other all over, and then your Mrs. got on top of the Martian-looking guy, I couldn't exactly see what she was doing, but she was grindin' away, and then suddenly the guy flipped your Mrs. on her back, starts rubbin' her all over, and he gets up real close to her and climbs up on her , crawlin' like on his hands and knees and then he takes hold of her panties and starts pullin' them down, and he gets them down and, oh my god...". Mortimer was so excited he couldn't continue.

"What, what happened?" Mandal screamed again, and he reached out, grabbed the parrot and started shaking him. "Tell me what happened?!?"

"I don't know," Mortimer the Kaoliang parrot screamed back, "I got a hard-on and fell off my perch!"

My friend Mott the Hoople, Jr. swears that's a true story.

Love and parakeets,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

A Six Day Work Week, With Benefits

No one is sure what motivated the Creator to suddenly get up one day and decide, hey, I think I'll start creating the universe today, it's Monday, for once I'm all caught up, and darn it, I'd like to have my own universe, and since I'm the Creator, hey, I'm all over this one.

According to reports from unreliable sources, such as all those Old Testament prophet guys, TC worked His butt off for the next six days, and after all that work, making planets, and animals, and mountains, and rivers, and platypuseses, and trees, and stars, and moons, and quasars, and quarks, and Miley, and just a whole lot of other stuff, after all that, TC decided that he needed a day off.

"I need a day off", He said to Himself.

(He hadn't gotten around to breathing life into the angels yet, that being the last thing on His list to do, so He was still talking to Himself at that point.)

Speculation amongst spiritual Big Dudes, like myself, the Pope of the All John All The Time World Church, is that TC was lonely, and wanted some companionship. Me, personally, I would have told Him to create canines, find a likely-looking Golden Retriever to adopt and go from there. They're great companions, (ask the Harley Dog) and not NEAR as much work as women.

But NOOOooo, TC has to do the whole Adam and Eve thing, and now look where we are. Geez. (Oh, and by the way, "the Harley Dog" I referred to above is the "official" canine of the AJATTWC, my sidekick, roommate and best buddy, Harley.)

Anyway, the Creator decides He's had enough for one week, and thought that if he had forgotten to create something He needed for His universe, He could take care of it next week.

So on the Sunday of His "Creation Week", TC took the day off.

"You know, since I'm not working today; I think I'll hang out, do some burgers on the grill and watch the first game of the Lakers/Mavericks series." He went over to His workbench, breathed life into the angels He had stored there (hey, He didn't want to watch the game by Himself), and asked the first batch of new angels, "How's that sound?", to which, of course, the newly-minted Seraphim and Cherubim had no answer, because they had just been created, and didn't know from basketball. Or burgers, for that matter.

So the Creator rested on what came to be called the Sabbath, watched the Lakers annihilate the Mavs, and got back to his job of creation on Monday.

And since the Creator took one day off each week, with pay, your Pope Dude is going to do the same thing.

I'm off today and I'm back tomorrow. (Actually, I'm not off any more today than I usually am, I'm just not working today.) Oh, and the Bored of Elders of the AJATTWC have agreed to pay me for today as well. (Hot damn, another $3.69.)

Try to muddle along as well as you can, oh ye followers of the Pope, without the soothing balm of Johnism, for just this one day. Come on, you can do it.

Hey, how many of you are off on Sunday, huh? Yeah.

Love and triple time,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Yo Hablo El Spanishola Y Something

Since the All John All The Time World Church is just that, a world church, as the Pope of this venerable institution, I've decided to start making my "posts" available in languages other than English, such as Chinese, Dutch and Quartle, the language spoken on the planet Hercyon III. The message of the soothing balm of Johnism should never be constrained due to a language barrier, or a criminal indictment for that matter.

So in an effort to give my faithful followers here in the States (Innocence and Confusion) an idea how my deathless prose comes across in say, Spanish or Dutch, and, with all false modesty aside, to showcase my rather impressive linguistic skills, here's today's message, going out to all my brothers and sisters in AJATTWC, as well as to all of you seekers of the light who, as yet, haven't had the joyous experience of being exposed to Johnism.

"El abrelatas de arriba eléctrico de la puerta del garage fue inventado por C.G. Johnson en 1926 en la ciudad de Hartford, Indiana. Los abrelatas eléctricos de la puerta del garage no llegaron a ser populares hasta que Era Meter Company de Chicago ofreciera uno después de la Segunda Guerra Mundial donde la puerta de arriba del garage se podría abrir vía un cojín dominante situado en un poste en el extremo de la calzada o de un interruptor dentro del garage. [1] El contrario a la creencia popular, el abrelatas eléctrico no proporciona la energía de elevación real de abrir y de cerrar una puerta pesada del garage. En lugar, la mayor parte de la energía de elevación real viene a partir de los muelles equilibradores que están bajo tensión para levantar la puerta del garage vía los cables de acero del contrapeso. El abrelatas eléctrico controla solamente hasta dónde la puerta se abre y se cierra, tan bien como la fuerza la puerta del garage ejerce. En la mayoría de los casos, el abrelatas de la puerta del garage también actúa como cerradura. El abrelatas eléctrico típico de la puerta del garage consiste en una unidad de energía que contenga el motor eléctrico. Los agregados de la unidad de energía a una pista. Una carretilla conectó con un brazo que los agregados a la tapa de la puerta del garage resbalan hacia adelante y hacia atrás en la pista, así la abertura y el closing la puerta del garage. La carretilla es tirada a lo largo de la pista por una cadena, una correa, o un tornillo que las vueltas cuando se funciona el motor. Un mecanismo de suelta rápida se ata a la carretilla para permitir que la puerta del garage sea desconectada del abrelatas para la operación manual durante un apagón o en caso de urgencia. Interruptores de límite en el control de unidad de energía la distancia que la puerta del garage se abre y que se cierra una vez que el motor recibe una señal del botón teledirigido o de la pared de funcionar la puerta. [2] La asamblea entera cuelga sobre la puerta del garage. La unidad de energía cuelga del techo y está situada hacia la parte posterior del garage. El extremo de la pista en el extremo contrario de los agregados de la unidad de energía a un soporte del jefe que se ata a la pared del jefe sobre la puerta del garage. La cabeza de la energía es apoyada generalmente por el hierro de ángulo perforado."

Or possibly you would like to see this in Dutch:

"De elektrische luchtopener van de garagedeur werd uitgevonden door C.G. Johnson in 1926 in de Stad van Hartford, Indiana. De elektrische openers van de Deur van de Garage niet werden populair tot Era Meter Company van Chicago na Wereldoorlog II aanbood waar de luchtgaragedeur via een zeer belangrijk stootkussen die op een post aan het eind van de oprijlaan wordt gevestigd of een schakelaar binnen de garage zou kunnen worden geopend. [1] Het tegendeel aan populair geloof, de elektrische opener verstrekt niet de daadwerkelijke het opheffen bevoegdheid om een zware garagedeur te openen en te sluiten. In plaats daarvan, komt het grootste deel van de daadwerkelijke het opheffen macht uit de counterbalance lentes die onder spanning zijn om de garagedeur via staalcounterbalance kabels op te heffen. De elektrische opener controleert slechts hoe ver de deur opent en sluit, evenals de kracht de garagedeur uitoefent. In de meeste gevallen, doet de opener van de garagedeur ook dienst als slot. De typische elektrische opener van de garagedeur bestaat uit een machtseenheid die de elektrische motor bevat. De machtseenheid maakt aan een spoor vast. Een karretje dat met een wapen wordt verbonden dat aan de bovenkant van de garagedeur vastmaakt glijdt afwisselend op het spoor, waarbij en de garagedeur wordt geopend wordt gesloten. Het karretje wordt getrokken langs het spoor door een ketting, een riem, of een schroef die draaien wanneer de motor in werking wordt gesteld. Een quick-release mechanisme is in bijlage aan het karretje om de garagedeur toe te laten om van de opener voor handverrichting tijdens een stroomuitval worden losgemaakt of in geval van nood. De grens schakelt de controle van de machtseenheid de in afstand de garagedeur opent en sluit zodra de motor een signaal van de afstandsbediening of muurdrukknop ontvangt om de deur in werking te stellen. [2] De volledige assemblage hangt boven de garagedeur. De machtseenheid hangt van het plafond en naar het achtergedeelte van de garage gevestigd. Het eind van het spoor op het tegenovergestelde eind van de machtseenheid maakt aan een kopbalsteun vast die aan de kopbalmuur boven de garagedeur in bijlage is. Het machtshoofd wordt gewoonlijk gesteund door geslagen hoekstaal.

I gives me such a thrill to know that I'm able to reach so many more of you by being able to offer my thoughts and teachings in the other languages of our world, so as to connect with as many of you "seekers of truth" as possible. I'm proud of time and effort I've spent in learning other tongues (although my ex-girlfriend, Dee Dee Spanxalot, didn't agree with that point of view, and let's see if you can make that esoteric leap of comprehension) and I hope that all of my brothers and sisters in the faith that speak in the languages of other nations will be as thrilled with receiving the message of Johnism in their native tongue as I am in delivering it to, shit, the Popephone is ringing...

"PJTT...hey, dude, how's the LamaBall coming?...try using a lighter bat...36 ounces, man, that's a big piece of lumber, try 32...yeah, I'm working on it right now...yeah...yeah...no, most of them won't know what it says, so what, its the image that's important...I know its the history of garage-door openers, and YOU know its the history of garage-door openers, but unless you speak Spanish or Dutch, and where the hell do they speak DUTCH these days, in Lower DopeyLand, for chrissake, nobody else will know...hey, its the IMAGE that counts, remember? I'll look like Pope Magnanimous...too bad, its almost done and I'm running it...tell the Bored I'm still the Pope, okay, its my blog and I'll post what I please...no...no...a FREE one year pass to the Playboy Mansion?...okay...okay...yeah, I'll fix it...yeah, YES, okay...I'll call you later...yeah."

Shit.

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one who has all the Nike shoes); he says that the Bored of Elders of the AJATTWC says I can't post this without an explanation. (Shit.) Okay, the message that appears above isn't exactly the "soothing balm of Johnism", all right, its, well, its something else. (Shit.) Okay, it's the history of garage-door openers from an article on WikiPedia. (Large sigh of embarrassment here.)

There, I fixed it; I just hope you're all happy now.

I'm going to my room to sulk.

Love and Berlitz,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

...The Program Will Also Include Several Of Chopin's Etudes...

(I first posted the essay below back on 3/6, but its one of my favorites, so I decide to "repost" it again today. Besides, I didn't have a new post ready, so it was either a rerun or making all my loyal followers go an entire day without the benefit of the soothing balm of Johnism. Enjoy.)

Today's post will be brief, and for that I hope all you loyal followers of the Pope will forgive me; I've been called to the planet Hercyon III on an emergency mission and Harley and I (as most of you know, the Harley Dog is the "official" canine of Pope John The Tall (me) of the All John All The Time World Church) are heading out on the Royal Unionship Kidding, or the RU Kidding for short, which is my atomic powered rocket ship, just as soon as we finish breakfast (waffles for me, dog food for Harley).

We were called to Hercyon III by the Procurator of Memses, Blistex, who is the Guiba for the planet, who sent me an urgent message yesterday, telling me that he had a "situation of a spiritual nature" with one of his hrtibbthlks, which means "astronaut" in Quartle, the language they speak on Hercyon, and that he felt my presence could be of a beneficial nature. Since Hercyon III is fairly close to Earth, only .36 parsecs, we can get there in the Kidding in under a day, or about the time it takes to drive down the 405 Freeway from the Valley to the West Side, which for those of you who don't live in sunny and in the low 70's Southern California, is about 12 miles.

(...later in the day...)

We arrived on Hercyon III and were immediately taken to see the Procurator, who explained that his hrtibbthlks had been through an unsettling experience when he landed on Hercyon III's second moon recently; his ship had strayed slightly off course and crash-landed, safely I am happy to report, on a beach some miles from the moon's landing pad. Blistex then had the hrtibbthlks brought in so I could speak with him.

The hrtibbthlks' name was Zygote, and he was carrying a tiny, but exquisite grand piano and a small man, about a foot tall, as he entered the room. He put the piano and the wee, tiny man down on a table, and the little guy proceeded to sit at the piano and began playing Beethoven's Sonata #14, which as you all are aware is also known as the "Moonlight Sonata", and playing beautifully. We listened in amazement, and while the recital continued, I drew the hrtibbthlks aside and asked him to tell me his story.

"As I was sitting on the beach waiting for the rescue craft to come," he told me, "I noticed an object sticking out of the sand a few meters from where I was, so, out of curiosity, I walked over to check it out. It appeared to be a lamp of some sort, and as I picked it up I noticed some writing on the side. As I was wiping the sand off so I could read what it said, this mist began spewing out of the end of the lamp, and the next thing I knew, the mist had solidified and there stood this, I don't know what it was, but it looked like a really ancient being of some sort." He stopped and shook his head.

"I must have been standing there with my mouth hanging open, and then this apparition began speaking."

"Don't be afraid," it said, "I am of the Djini, and have been trapped in that lamp for many centuries, placed there by an evil sorcerer as punishment for being a Cubs fan. I am most grateful for your having freed me, and I will grant you two wishes as reward for your kindness. What desires may I fulfill for you?" (Cheap Djini: its usually three wishes.)

"So I thought for a moment," the hrtibbthlks continued, "and then told him that I would like good health for my family all throughout their lives."

The Djini looked at the hrtibbthlks and said, "I'm sorry, my son, but I am ancient in my years and do not hear so well; please, tell me again what you just said, as I did not understand you."

"So I repeated my wish, and the Djini clapped his hands and said it was done."

"And what is your second wish?" the Djini asked.

"I stood there and thought for a long time, and the Ancient One said in this anxious voice, 'Hurry, for my time in this shape grows short and I must return to whence I came."

"I could see the Djini was starting to fade, so I blurted out, 'I want a 12 inch penis.' The Djini, who was now becoming transparent as he faded into a mist that enveloped us both, placed his hand behind his ear and said, in a rapidly fading voice, 'I'm sorry, my time on this plane is no more, your second wish is...' and he was gone."

"What happened then?" I asked the hrtibbthlks.

And he pointed to the little man at the grand piano and said, "And when the mist cleared, there he was..."

(12 inch pianist, okay? Geez.)

Love and Mozart,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Shopping In The Pope's Department Store

As those of you who follow the daily posts on my blog, "...from the desk of Pope John The Tall..." know, I check in with my staff and department heads here at the All John All The Time World Church periodically, to determine the pulse of the world, so to speak, and also to check up on these guys to make sure they're punchin' the old time clock. Hey, the AJATTWC is a charitable, "not for profit" organization, (as opposed to some companies out there, who are "can't make a profit" companies), so we're careful with the benjamins; we throw nickels around like manhole covers. (I started to make a really crude joke there about "manhole covers", but for once, my very slight sense of decorum kicked in...and I didn't. Aren't you guys proud of me?)

(You want to hear it anyway? No, no, never mind.)

So after returning from whatever godless, forsaken shithole the Bored of Elders of the AJATTWC sent us to most recently, the us being myself and the Harley Dog, my sidekick and back-up navigator onboard my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, I got a hold of my head of department people, and here's some of the reports I received:

-From the Oh, So Now He's A Marketing Maven As Well As The Pope Department:

            I was watching the Dodgers/Marlins game the other evening, and I noticed on the huge advertising sign they have behind home plate at Sun Lite Stadium, where the Marlins play, an ad for the company Waste Management (who, totally apropos to nothing, were once the darlings of Wall Street), hawking one of their new products, an enormous bag-thing that you can have WM deliver to your home so you can throw out all kinds of unusual debris, like old sinks, and rusted pipes that have been removed from walls, construction debris, old mother-in-laws, etc.

            The ad was divided in half; on the right half was WM's name and a corporate message. On the left side, was the following message...

            Part Bag.

            Part Dumpster.

...and that was it. I thought it would be much more interesting this way...

            Part Bag,

            Part Dumpster,

            All Woman.

And now you can understand why they won't let me have sharp objects.

-From the Webster's Dictionary People Don't Need Any Help Department:

            New word whose use I'm promoting: "ralphitate". You guess the meaning.

-From the A New Career In Retirement Department:

            One of my staff members suggested that, after I retire from my Pope gig, I could launch a whole new career as "Mr. Phone Love", which would be kind of a reversal of those 1-900 sex-line places you see advertised all over late night TV. In my version, senior citizens (preferably women) would sign up for my service, and then, unscheduled and unannounced, I would call them up and breathe in their respective ears and whisper disgusting, filthy things I would like to do to them, if they weren't 857 years old and wrinkled like a cotton shirt that was left in the bottom of the dryer after the final cycle. You know, a little cheap thrill for Granny once in awhile, just to keep the juices flowing, so to speak. (Do you think the "manhole cover" joke would have been any worse than this? Geez.)

From the Maybe He Came In To Get Warm Department (In FL?):

            According to MSN.com, a Palmetto FL woman recently discovered an unwanted visitor in her bathroom; a seven foot long alligator, who apparently has a bladder problem.

            Alexis Dunbar, the lady whose bathroom the alligator decided to visit, believes the animal used a doggie door on her back porch to get inside the house (Ms. Dunbar, according to the report, has no dog, but two cats who use the door, both of whom escaped the nocturnal bathroom visitor with no apparent injuries). Dunbar, who lives in Palmetto, which is south of St. Petersburg, told WFLA-TV reporters that she also believes the 'gator hung out at her house for several hours after getting inside; some of her things had been "rearranged" so to speak. Her visitor was subsequently removed by local wildlife authorities, after her boyfriend propped a chair against the bathroom door, trapping the guest inside.

There was a quote in the report from one of the wildlife guys who "rescued" the alligator, to wit: "Spring is mating season for alligators and wildlife officials urge people to be extremely cautious, especially around water." (I assume that means "water" occurring in nature, like swamps and lakes; I suspect the people in FL would like to think their pools, drinking fountains and lawn-sprinklers are safe.)

            You know, not knowing that you have an seven foot long alligator in your bathroom has to make getting up to pee in the middle of the night a much more interesting experience.

From the Is It Loyalty Or Stupidity? Department:

            Last week, on April 22nd, the Dodgers played the worst franchise in baseball, the Chicago Cubs, at their home field in Chicago, Wrigley Field, which is almost as bad a joke as the team that plays there.

            At game time, 1:15pm local, it was raining vigorously, so the game was delayed. (The temperature on the north side of Chicago was also in the mid 40's at this point.) After a 45-minute delay, with the temperature still dropping and the rain abated, the game got under way. There were several other rain stoppages, and the game proceeded haltingly through the sixth inning, with the Dodgers ahead 8-2. That's when I turned it on, and here's how the game ended after nine:

            -it was by then in the low 40's, with wind gusts off Lake Michigan, which is only a few miles east of the stadium (knowing Chicago weather, as I do intimately, the wind chill at that point had to be in the mid 30's);

            -it was still drizzling rain periodically;

            -the Cubs were losing...ready...12-2; yes, you read that correctly: TWELVE TO TWO;

            -it is by now well after 7:00pm, with all the rain delays;

-AND THE STANDS WERE STILL ABOUT HALF FULL OF CUBS FANS.

Einstein is credited with the theory that doing something in the same manner repeatedly and expecting different results each time is the definition of insanity; I submit that a new definition is needed, and fans of the Cubs are happily providing it for us.

Insanity, thy name is Chicago.

-From the And I Can Prove It Department:

            I was looking at my didn't-shower-today-and-haven't-shaved-in-two-days face in the mirror last night, and it suddenly occurred to me, hey, I can prove, unequivocally, that Intelligent Design does not exist. Simply, the intelligence of any entity that can create that face, an ostrich and Rosie O'Donnell has to be highly suspect.

From the What's Next, Blue Light Specials At Neiman-Marcus Department:

            According to an ad I saw in the LA (pronounced LAH, you know, like "Doe, a deer, a female deer, ray, a drop of golden sun", etc.) Times yesterday, 99 Cents Only Stores now have a...bridal registry.

From the Classic Literature Department:

            While I was watching that same Dodgers/Marlins game from FL the other night, the Marlins, who had gotten behind in the score during the later innings, brought in a relief pitcher named Mujica, and I thought to myself, hey, if he's an only child, and has no sons, wouldn't that make him..."The Last Of The Mujica's"?

From the What? Department:

            Remember all those great pirate movies from back in the 1700's (???), where the characters would use phrases like, "hoist the jib mast" and "batten down the barnacles", and my all-time favorite, "shiver me timbers, matey".

            Okay, I give up, how exactly does one "shiver" his "timbers"?

Well, I can see from the sundial on my wall that it's time for my medicine, so I think I'll close for now. Harley and I have to prepare to go to, hell, wherever the Bored sends us next week to preach the soothing balm of Johnism. I hope its some place nice like South Florida, home of the North American alligator, or Lower Zimbabwe, home of the African ebert, a small, furry mammal with an enormous sex-organ. (Harley wanted to get an ebert to keep as a pet, but I said no. I hate to admit it, but I was envious. Hey, some guys are hung like stud horses; I'm hung like a stud chipmunk.)

(Wanna' hear the "manhole cover" joke now?)

Love and Bloomingdale's (departments that is),

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

As Ron White Says, You Can't Fix Stupid

I have it on good authority that Miley Cyrus recently joined a terrorist group.

Her first assignment was to blow up a car.

She burned her mouth on the tailpipe.

Love and celebrities,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Once More, With Feeling (Gay Marriage, The Rudest City In America and The Kardashians)

(Okay, its recycle time again; I originally posted the essay below back in my salad days (1/28), and since I didn't have another "post" ready for this morning, well, I hope you enjoy my deathless prose in redeau.)

 

I totally do not get this whole hoohaw over gay marriage.

As Pope of the All John All The Time World Church, I believe that it is one of my duties to keep abreast (I'd like to keep more than one) of the issues that face the world and our members every day, so that I can address these topics and be a beacon of light and logic to those that look to their Pope guy for guidance.

Hard to say all that with a straight face.

But of all the issues that the world deals with daily, whether it be the economy, the plight of the poor, healthcare, gun control, terrorism or the latest reality show starring the Kardashians, (just exactly how many Kardashians are there anyway? Every time I look, its like there's another one, doing this photo shoot or that red-carpet appearance, shit, they're like rabbits), the one that perplexes me the most is gay marriage. Why in the world wouldn't you want somebody's marriage to be gay? Wouldn't a happy, carefree union, one that is joyous and spontaneous, wouldn't that be something to strive for? Why would anyone not want...hang on, the Popephone is ringing...JTT...dude...its what?...between two men or women?...whoa, that's not what I was told...Bill, down in the altar and throne department...you're kidding...first of all, tell that asshole that's not funny, then fire him...now, today, yes...okay, call me back when its done...that jerk.

(Frankly, I think gays should be allowed to marry; why shouldn't they just as miserable as the heteros?)

And with no segue whatsoever, in a recent poll in Travel & Leisure, a magazine for Republican boomers with too much money and time on their hands, Los Angeles, the City Of The Angels (the heavenly kind, not the baseball team that plays in Los Angeles of Anaheim), according to the people who were polled, is the Rudest City In America. Not the most scenic, or having the best restaurants, or the most hideous architecture, no, the rudest. In America. The whole country.

Now I live in L.A.; I lived in Chicago and its suburbs almost my entire life, and moved west to Los Angeles when I was 50, having grown tired of standing ass-deep in snow while I spent 10 minutes cleaning off the windshield of my car so I could drive two blocks to the grocery store for a gallon of milk and the latest edition of Big Breast Annual. Notwithstanding the weather, I loved Chicago; great restaurants, incredible museums, including the world class Art Institute, an amazing shoreline along Lake Michigan, the best blues clubs, yeah, Chicago is way cool in my mind. (Chicago is also the home of the world's worst sports franchise, the Chicago Cubs, who, as of this writing in early 2011, have not won a championship in over 100 YEARS. 1908. Sad.)

But I don't agree with the poll that named L.A. as the Rudest City In America. Most stupid, maybe, certainly the most narcissistic but rudest? I don't know, that seems kinda' harsh, you know? I don't think L.A. is any more or less "rude" than any other big city; hell, we're downright civilized compared to some cities. (So I don't have to hear the howls of protest, I'll not mention them by name. NYC.)

So I decided that I would use my bully pulpit as Pope of the AJATTWC, and in defense of it's honor, it's reputation, rally all the residents of Los Angeles to rise up in defiance of Leisure & Travel magazine and have the Kardashians removed from all media in the country. L.A. controls the entertainment industry, and we have the power. That's right, America, all you thoughtless poops who dissed my adopted home, we'll take away the one thing that I know you people cannot subsist without, that's right, the Kardashian family, however many of them there are.

Rudest, huh? Well, you've picked the wrong Marine to screw with, America. From now on, just see how dull your reality shows are without Kim, Khloe, Kourtney, Konnie, Kenny, Kermit, shit, the list just goes on and on and...

Love and TMZ,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.