It Wasn't My Fault

Okay, now I'm not trying to impugn anyone here, but there's an explanation for why Your Pope didn't post anything to his blog yesterday, and since that deprived all of you of my daily message, which of course was chock full of the soothing balm of Johnism, I feel an obligation to explain.

The reason I didn't write a post yesterday? I couldn't.

The weinie-heads at Blogger.com had the website shut down all day and I couldn't get logged on. (Yeah, and see if any of those guys get into Heaven..."I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too...". (Thank you, L. Frank Baum, once again.) Harley gets all worked up during "The Wizard Of Oz"; he thinks Toto was the victim of poor management and could have gone MUCH further in Hollywood with a good agent. He also wants me to carry him around like Dorothy carried her dog. I reminded him he that weighs 100.4 pounds, at least according to the digital scale in his vet's office the last time we were there, and that, as a lap dog, he'd make a fine nuclear physicist. I let him sit on my lap one time, a few years ago; imagine being sat on by a pregnant water buffalo. No, Harley Dog, the only thing you have in common with Toto is an attractive human.)

See, even the Pope Dude has situations where he doesn't have all the control he would like to have, and much like the feeling you have when you can't get the lid off the new mayonnaise jar, it was frustrating.

So I stomped my feet and cried really loud and jumped up and down and threw a tantrum and guess what?

I still couldn't get access to the site, so no post for yesterday.

Shit.

I have some errands to run later, after I read my morning paper, as well as a shitload of rosaries I have to bless, and some appointments with other "brother Wizards" that I have to keep, so I'm just not going to have time to write a post until later, or maybe even tomorrow. Yeah, okay, I heard the gasp of shock go up from the crowd, I know you're upset and disappointed, but have faith, my children, it's only one day.

Hey, hang on, the Popephone's ringing...

"PJTT...hey, Mike, what's going on?...good, that's great...yeah, I'm working on it right now...why?...okay, but tell the committee I said no sainthood unless they can explain those paycheck stubs she had from that "Hannah's House Of Harlots" place in Vegas...I don't want another "situation" like the one we had last year when we had to explain those compromising pics of me and all those little people from after the "Wizard Of Oz" reunion dinner we got invited to...yeah...yeah, I'm explaining it right now, what a bunch of cry-babies, geez, one day without a post and they're coming unglued, for chrissake...yeah, okay, I gotta' go, I gotta' finish this...yeah...hey, lunch at the Beaver's Den later?...cool."

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan, (no, not the one who didn't make his freshman basketball team); he expressed to me upset how he was with the utter and complete failure of the Blogger.com people to do their jobs competently, and how bad he felt, as do I, about not being able to post an essay yesterday.

Okay, if I get going and get all my errands done, MAYBE I can write something later; I'm not making any promises, but I'll try.

Hey, there's a Dodgers game on this afternoon, okay? How about priorities, huh? I'm only one man, admittedly an amazingly good-looking one, but only a man; I can't do everything.

Somebody has to staple the Sunday bulletins later today too, and ol' Harley Dog doesn't have opposable thumbs, so he's no help, and that means that I have to do it. So no post today either, now that I think about it. The hell with all of it, I'm just not doing one today.

Just like those Blogger. com people, I'm taking another day off.

With pay.

Love and workloads,

PJTT

It Sure Wasn't Like This When I Was In School

"...and in closing, allow me to give you the same advise I give all the students and young people, kids much like yourselves, (only not as green and without the second heads), from the All John All The Time World Church Youth Corps, about the future and their role in the world, as they graduate from college and prepare to take their rightful places in society: clean mind, clean body; take your pick."

I'm practicing the commencement speech I've been asked to give at the Humidorianian Military Academy And Currency Exchange, on the planet HumidorPrime, next week. It's quite an honor, considering the Humidorianians have NEVER had an "outlander" address the graduating class of their highly respected and galactically known military academy. (The Humidorianians train space pilots, navigators, astrogators, alligators, communicators, sea urchins and the '78 Reds to be responsible and highly competent members of astronaut teams that are sent out into space, "to boldly go where no man has gone before", (thank you, Gene Roddenberry), to explore, colonize and govern (and introduce WalMarts to) new worlds and civilizations.

I've never been to HumidorPrime before, but as the Pope Guy of the AJATTWC, it's certainly not the first time the Bored Of Elders of the church has sent me to some God-forsaken rathole, err, sorry, some new and exciting place that offers new challenges and experiences for your Pope and Harley Dog, who I usually drag along on these trips to provide company and another, totally unbiased, opinion of local customs and culture. (Harley has WAY more culture than I'll ever have; he's better looking too.) (Oh, by the way, "the Harley Dog" I mentioned above is Harley, my sidekick, roommate and the "official" canine of the AJATTWC, as well as being the back-up navigator onboard my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, which he and I refer to as the "RU Kidding" for short. His picture appears -->. Mine doesn't.)

We'll be taking the RU Kidding obviously, since it isn't likely we can get the Popemobile to exceed the Speed Of Aroma, as the Kidding is capable of doing, and since HumidorPrime is just under 23.6 light years away, or about as far as the Dodgers are from the World Series, you can just bet your '97 Camry with 103,000 on it isn't going to get us there. The Kidding is outfitted with HyperAromaDrive, which is the thingie that allows the ship to travel at speeds well in excess of the threshold of Aroma Speed. (The best way to explain the "Speed Of Aroma" is to liken it to other measurements of time/distance, e.g. the speed of light, which is a visual comparison, or the speed of sound, which is obviously aural in nature, and the speed of aroma, which is an olfactory comparison.)

Zero to sixty measured in nanoseconds; "God Of Wind", eat your heart out.

I'm quite pleased at having been picked for this honor; not only have the Humidorianians never had someone other than a planetary "big-wig" give the commencement speech at the Academy, they've never had a Galactic figure of, and please allow me a moment of unrestrained conceit here, my prominence and notoriety to address the Kadets at their graduation. I am humbled and thrilled by the prospect.

Anyway, you'll have to excuse me; I need to get back to rehearsing my speech so I have it down cold. The technology on HumidorPrime is a little behind ours; they have no TelePrompters, so I to rely on the old memory for this one. Shit, the Popephone is ringing...

"PJTT...hey, Mike, how are the arrangements for the flight to HumidorPrime coming?...great...excellent...hey, make sure the guys in the back get our clubs loaded onboard; I hear Humidor has a bunch of great gerbil golf courses I want to check out...thanks...so, what's up?...yeah...whatta' mean, "there was a little mix-up with the invitation"?...they want WHO?...WHAT!?!...are you kidding?..."isn't that the name of your spaceship?", ha-ha, very funny...how's Harley going to give a commencement speech, HE'S A DOG, FOR CHRISSAKE...fine, that's just great, so what am I supposed to do?...no...no...no, I'm not going.. forget it, I'm not going to be a glorified "dog-walker" for them...no...I don't care, send them a message and square it somehow...no...no...a year's supply of Thin Mints?...(large sigh of resignation here)...all right, I'll do it...yes, yes, I'll go, okay, are you happy now?...I gotta' go...yeah...tell the Bored this sucks, okay, but I'm doin' it...yeah, okay, call me later."

Shit.

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one that owns the Charlotte Bobcats); he tells me that someone in the AJATTWC office read the invitation from the Humidorianians incorrectly, and that it was Harley that they wanted at the Commencement, not me, and not to give a speech, but to just "be there" to add his "presence" to the proceedings. The invite said that they wanted someone of Harley's "high moral fiber" to be in attendance, to act as an example for the newly graduated Midshippersons (they're politically correct on HumidorPrime as well) to emulate.

Geez.

Please allow me to repeat what I said to Mike: "HE'S A DOG, FOR CHRISSAKE!"

Now granted, the Harley Dog is easily the best dog ever, hands down, no argument, settled in advance, Walter Cronkite's "...and that's the way it is...", done deal, the absolutely best dog ever. He's smart, affectionate, silly, funny and a great companion, but he's still a dog, and HE CAN'T TALK, YOU MORONS, HOW THE HELL IS HE GOING TO GIVE A SPEECH, HUH?

Geez.

Oh, that's right, the Humidorianians just want him there to add his "grace, dignity and class". I'll grant you Harley has more g, d and c than most people I know, but...okay, he's got way more than I have, even, but hey, no speech? No applause, no bright lights?

Boy, what a downer. Miley Cyrus won't be this depressed on the day she finds out she has no talent, assuming she ever does.

(Another large sigh of resignation here.) I guess it could be worse; I could be going with my ex-.

I understand from several people I know who are familiar with the Humidorianian Military Academy that it's a pretty straight-laced institution; to quote Dean Wormer (what a great name) from the movie "Animal House", "...no fun of any kind..." is allowed. There's a curfew during the school week, and staff monitors in all the hallways at all times, periodic, unannounced inspections, no alcohol or "drugs" allowed, no pets, and a security deposit is required. Essentially, it's the Alcatraz of institutions of higher learning.

(Segue begins here.)

And the students of the Academy are apparently not as free and fun-loving as their student counterparts in Germany. Or as open about how they intend to pay for their education, either, I suspect.

According to a report from Rueters, datelined Berlin: "One in three university students in the German capital would consider sex work as a means to finance their education, a study from the Berlin Studies Center said Wednesday."

These are German kids? Offspring of Freud and Wagner? Sex-workers? Boy, what's wrong with that picture? I mean, if this were France, or Italy, or Holland or even Lower Zimbabwe (home of the ebert), I could probably understand it, but GERMANY? Naw, no way, no way a bunch of uptight, sauerkraut-eating German kids pay for their schooling doing Johans Unter Den Lindens. (FYI, prostitution is legal in Berlin, however cow-tipping is still prohibited.)

The study by the Center also queried young people in Paris, France, where the percentage of students who said they would consider being a "sex-worker" (things are screwed up somewhere in the world when "sex" has to be considered "work") was somewhat lower (29.2%) than the Berlin figure, and also in Kiev, Russia, where the college attendees who were asked if they would consider prostitution as a way to pay for their education mostly wanted to know if that meant sex with humans or what exactly, before they would answer the survey questions. Upon answering, only 18.5%, or 1 in 1693, of the students in the Russian city who were surveyed said that they would consider being a prostitute as a means to earn money for tuition. (86.3% said they would consider doing it for free vodka.)

The report went on to add this interesting little tidbit of information: "The study found some 4 percent of the 3,200 Berlin students surveyed said they had already done some form of sex work, which includes prostitution, erotic dancing and Internet shows."

You know, these kids could be on to something; I mean, think of the possibilities for the Congresscritters in Washington.

Committee Chairman: "Mr. Representative, you want a new military base built in your state? No problem. Just one question: how do you intend to pay for it?"

Congressperson Weasel: "A tax increase?"

CC: "No, no, legislationboy, the people are already neck deep in taxes, try again."

CW: "How about one of those, whatta' call them, you know, the things we always attach to bills that we think the taxpayers won't notice..."

CC: "You mean an "earmark"?

CW: "Yeah, one of those "landmark" thingies, how 'bout we pay for it with one of those?"

CW: "Mr. Weasel, you're apparently unaware of a new policy that was recently agreed to between the House, Senate and the White House; it's called "You Pay? You Lay", and basically it sets out the guidelines for a new way of paying for the various stupid, useless, tax-revenue wasting projects that Congresspersons, like yourself, are always proposing. In other words, Mr. Representative, if you want it, you're going to have to earn it. The hard way."

In deference to the level of good taste I'm trying to maintain in my posts, (really? since when?), I'll refrain from making the obvious connection that already exists between prostitution and politics. (Too easy.)

I love this: "The main motivation of students to turn to prostitution were the financial incentives, namely the high hourly wages," Eva Blumenschein, one of the study's authors and a 26-year-old student at Berlin's Humboldt University, told Reuters.

Hourly wages? Prostitutes are paid by the hour in Berlin? Boy, leave it to the Germans to get the railroads running on time. Sex by the hour? Oh yeah, that's romantic.

Well, I can see from the sundial on the wall that I should wrap this up; I still have to practice my, shit, I guess I don't have to practice my speech, now that I think about it.

I didn't want to give that speech anyway.

You know, if they're using sex to pay for tuition in Berlin, you have to wonder what they're doing in Harzzel, on the planet Xanthous, where not only is prostitution legal, but it's also an athletic competition.

Hell, they even allow female Xanthousianians with three breasts to charge an extra "handling" fee.

But there's no student discounts. Period.

Love and matriculation (no, that's not something you do with your teeth),

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Falling Back On The "Wizard Of Oz" Defense

You guys remember the scene in the movie "The Wizard Of Oz" (thank you, L. Frank Baum) where Dorothy and the Scarecrow and the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion are trying to convince the guard at the front door of the Wizard's palace to grant them an audience with Oz...

...and he listens sympathetically for a few moments...

...then tells them, rather bluntly, to move on, and come back tomorrow...

...after all the heartache and travail they went through to get there; what an asshole.

Guess what, guys? Your Pope hasn't got a clue what to write about today, and, due to time constraints and general laziness on the part "His Immenseness", I didn't just rerun an old post like I usually do when I'm suffering from "writer's block", which in my case presupposes "writer", so...

"Now go away and come back tomorrow."

And clean up the mess that lion just made. Geez.

Okay, standard fall-back suggestion: check out my short, animated video, "The Pope John Cheer" at:

<http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_hi/a1adfd3c-78a3-11e0-a6c5-003048d6740d_61.mp4>

It's truly wonderful, just like your Pope Guy, and approved and licensed by the All John All The Time World Church Bored Of Elders.

I guess that makes it official or something. Anyway, you can get your daily dose of the "SBOJ" (Soothing Balm Of Johnism) from the video, and then I'm off the hook for the day. (Me and the Harley Dog are heading for the beach; we walk along the Palisades above the Pacific Coast Highway in Santa Monica, and Harley about goes nuts trying to sniff all the places the other dogs in the park have gone "wee". One of my all-time favorites authors, an hysterically funny man named Christopher Moore, says that a dog whizzing on a tree is leaving a "doggie email"; I love that.) Anyway, Harley will drive himself to distraction trying to answer all the messages (and run out of pee long before he does) and I'll commune with Nature (and I promise I will not notice all the half-naked and mostly naked women enjoying the park and the beach) and then later on this afternoon we'll come home, have a bite (Harley and I take turns on each other) and then later on watch the Dodgers embarrass themselves against the Chicago White Sox.

My daughter and son-in-law are BIG White Sox fans; I love them anyway. (They're turning my two grandsons into Sox fans as well, that's the problem with this situation, but hey, it could be worse; they could be Cubs fans.)

Love and beachballs,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Cheering For The Pope

In an effort to utilize all the different types of media available to us these days to bring you the soothing balm of Johnism, I thought that, rather than a written message extolling its virtues, I would use the medium of the Internet video to deliver my hominy for today. Your Pope believes that its important...shit, the Popephone is ringing...

"PJTT...Mike, I'm right in the middle of writing today's post, what's up?...it's what?..."homily", I thought it was "hominy"?...so what's hominy?...you've got the what?...oh, GRITS, I thought you said you were sick...what the hell are grits?...from corn?...have you ever seen a grit?...yeah, me neither...okay, I'll change it...yeah...okay, hey, are we still on for Hooters Friday night?...cool...okay, call me later."

Shit.

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one who used to do Gatorade commercials); he tells me that the word I wanted to use up there in the first paragraph was, ahh, homily, not hominy. I guess hominy is, umm, food.

(Remember the first diner scene in the movie "My Cousin Vinny" when Joe Pesci's eponymous character told Lisa, his girlfriend (played remarkably by Marisa Tomei, who won an Oscar for her performance) that he didn't think he had ever even SEEN a grit before. Thank you, Joe. Oh, and speaking of corn, my good friend Ron was recently diagnosed with diverticulitis; when we were discussing it, we both admitted that neither of us had any idea what diverticulitis was, and assumed it was something you got from scuba diving, which made no sense, because my friend Ron has never, ever "scubaed", at least not in a body of water larger than his bathtub. Anyway, I asked him what treatment modality his doctor was going to use to combat this horrid killer, and he said none. "He told me to stay away from corn and nuts, and other than that, there really isn't much else to be done." I told him that I was glad he wasn't a vegetarian squirrel.)

Anyway, as usual, I digress. (If digression were an art form, I'd be Picasso.)

So for today's uplifting message of the soothing balm of Johnism, I'm going to direct all of you to the website below, and ask that you view the short video there called "The Pope John Cheer", which will give you all the wholesomeness and decency you'll need to sustain you on your daily sojourn through the heathen world around us.

http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/11995168/the-pope-john-cheer

Go in peace, my children, and may the Farce be with you.

Love and grits,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Browsing Through The Pope's Departments

我看見了孟菲斯明亮的光和代將旅館，並且在街燈之下，我遇見了一名南部的佳麗。 她把我带到河，並且那裡她降了她的咒語，和南部的月光，她那么很好唱了歌曲。 如果您將是我的Dixie雞，我將是您的田納西羊羔，並且我們可以一起走在Dixie土地擊倒，下來在Dixie土地。 很好我們做了所有熱點，並且我的金錢流動了像酒，那低落下來南部的威士忌酒然后開始使我的頭腦模糊。 並且我不记得教堂钟或我在房子白色尖桩篱栅和木板走道放下在鎮邊緣的金錢。 但是男孩我记得我們一起度过和方式她會叫我的名字她的疊句和夜的張力。 如果您將是我的Dixie雞，我將是您的田納西羊羔，並且我們可以一起走在Dixie土地擊倒，下來在Dixie土地。 很好它是一年，自從您走開了，那位吉他演奏员可能肯定使用。 她總是喜歡唱歌，她總是得心應手的與歌曲。 然后在代將旅館的大廳的一夜，我偶然發生遇見說的侍酒者他很好认识她。 並且，因為他遞了我一份飲料，他開始哼唱著歌曲，並且那裡所有男孩在酒吧開始唱歌。 如果您將是我的Dixie雞，我將是您的田納西羊羔，並且我們可以一起走在Dixie土地擊倒，下來在Dixie土地。

As a public service to all you loyal followers of the Pope Guy of the All John All The Time World Church (me), I thought I would provide you with an English to Traditional Chinese translation of the lyrics to the song "Dixie Chicken" by Lowell George of Little Feat. ("...if you'll be my Dixie chicken, I'll be your Tennessee lamb...". Great song. And they got it all translated except the word "Dixie" (see above). By the way, this one's for you, Susie.)

I recently spent a great deal of time (14 minutes) producing and directing a short animated video called "The Pope John Cheer" (http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_hi/a1adfd3c-78a3-11e0-a6c5-003048d6740d_61.mp4) and as is often the case when I become preoccupied with a project of that magnitude, some of the other details get overlooked.

So now that the film is "in the can" (that's Hollywoodese for "in the shitt", ahh, sorry, "completed and ready for distribution"), I finally had a moment to meet with my various department heads and get their reports on the status of "stuff" in the world, to wit:

*From the FAQ: How Do I Access Galactic Birth Records? Department*

            President Barrack Obama apparently decided that enough is enough and sent his personal lawyer to Hawaii recently to arrange to have the "long form" of his birth certificate released to the media to quell growing speculation, not surprisingly, predominately from Republicans and other far-right goofballs, that he had not been born on American soil and was therefore Constitutionally unqualified to hold the office of POTUS. In the meantime, while these "birther" geniuses are out in the yard, baying at the moon, Mr. Obama is dealing with other equally minor issues like, oh, I don't know, maybe the mission to capture/kill Osama Bin Laden, or the deficit battle in Congress or making sure that all the Southern states that suffered the recent spate of tornado-caused damage have Federal assistance, Quadaffi, the MidEast, Iran, or maybe one of those other pesky, unimportant details by which the President is so often inconvenienced. 

            And you know what? If the "birthers" could find a way to access galactic and intergalactic birth records, they'd claim Obama was born on the planet Xanthous, the son of Febrlkl Juttedh and Kkenthr Sprtoth, in less time than it takes to "Beam me up, Scotty", believe me.

            Birth Day Of Child: Star Date 5693.851.

*From the You Guys Do Not Think Of Things The Way I Do Department*

            I was watching a recent Dodgers/Braves game, broadcast from Turner Field in Atlanta, and several times during the game I noticed a particular ad on the "electronic billboard" behind home plate. (You've seen these "billboards" if you've seen a baseball game on TV; they're right behind the batter as he stands in the batter's box, and the ad "message" changes frequently, to different sponsors. Unless you close your eyes and merely listen to the broadcast (I think that's called radio), you cannot avoid seeing these ads.)

            The advertisement that caught my attention among so many others was for a sports-ticket agency called StubHub; perhaps you've heard of them. (Perhaps you don't give a shit.) The point here is that, as I sat there, trying to watch the interaction of the pitcher/batter/catcher/umpire, my gaze kept returning to the "StubHub" sign behind the action, and after several glances back and forth between the billboard and the game, I came to realize that "StubHub" backwards is BuhButs, and I thought that was pretty funny.

            Not near as funny as the way the Dodgers were playing that day, but still humorous.

*From the Maybe It Was Self-Defense Department*

            Although the Associated Press report from Charleston WV (that's VW backwards) didn't say as much, self-defense would seem to be the only slightly plausible explanation for the actions of Charleston resident Mark L. Thompson, who was charged by the local sheriff's department recently with felony cruelty to an animal. Mr. Thompson was found:

            a) in the bedroom of his home;

            b) dressed in a bra and panties (there was no mention in the report if the underwear was his or someone else's);

            c) standing over the bloody, lifeless body of his neighbor's pygmy goat;

            d) whose name was Bailey (so help me, that's the name of the goat, not the neighbor);

e) that had died from a stab wound (also goat, not neighbor);

            f) holding a bloody knife in his hand;

            g) with a PORNOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE LYING OPEN ON THE FLOOR NEXT TO THE DEAD GOAT;

h) and a shit-eatin' grin on his face. (Okay, I made that one up.)

According to the police report, the neighbor who owned the goat, Lisa Powers, was alerted to what was happening by another neighbor, and approached and entered Thompson's house with two friends, looking for the goat. (The article didn't mention just exactly how the alerting neighbor knew what Shepard Boy was doing inside the house, inside his bedroom, and for the sake of whatever little decorum I'm still maintaining, I won't speculate.) They didn't immediately find either Thompson or the goat, but heard sounds coming from behind a closed bedroom door. They knocked on the door and, quote, "...from inside Thompson's closed bedroom, 'he told them, 'Don't come in, I'm naked,' Powers told police. 'But they opened the door and he was standing there with his pants down. He had on women's clothing and the goat was dead and there was blood everywhere. It was just a scene.'"

The report went on to add this comment from the arresting officer, who wrote:  "Thompson indicated he had been high and 'wasn't in his right mind' at the time of the incident."

If it wasn't self-defense, it had to be a religious ceremony.

*From the Hey, It's A Recession Thing, Okay? Department*

            I commented in one of my posts recently, and I don't remember which one and I'm too lazy to look it up, so take my word for it, okay?, that I had noticed in one of their ads in the L.A. Times that The 99 Cent Store now has a bridal registry, which I found to be mildly ironic and pretty funny.

            Quote The 99 Cent Store ad in today's Times: "Ask us about our Layaway Plan!" in that breathless, airhead-sounding way of cheesy advertising everywhere.

            Layaway? It's a 99 Cent Store, everything is 99 cents, right? Layaway?

            Being so broke that you have to put items on layaway at The 99 Cent Store would seem to be the embodiment of the phrase "if it took a nickel to shit I'd have to throw up".

            Whew.

*From the Do We REALLY Need A Word For That? Department*

            I was looking up a word in my Webster's New World Dictionary Of The American Language (not to confuse the "American language" with English, and yes, I do use an old-fashioned, PRINTED BOOK THING kind of dictionary, unlike people in today's high-tech environment, who, to determine the definition or usage of a particular word, snap open their iPhone or ThinkPad or BlackBerry, scroll through 8,453 apps to find the "Dictionary" icon, touch the icon and then wait for the Internet to upload, type in "flabbenshortzer" in the Search box, wait for the answer, and then realize that they don't have a pen to write down the answer on the piece of paper that they also don't have, but that's okay, they can save the link...geez) and I came upon a word (not the one I was looking up) that started me to thinking as to whether or not we actually need all these words we have.

            Anyway, the word I stumbled onto was on page 508 of the WNWDOTAL; the word?

            ~Excrementitious. (eks' kre men tish' aes), adj., of, or having the nature of, excrement; excremental.~

            Shit, I believe that we just have too many words, and I think we ought to flush some of them down the crapper, you know, just take a whole load of extra, unnecessary words and dump them.

            On page 834, I saw, ahh, never mind.

*From the And These People Are Our Allies? Department*

            According to an article in the Sunday, May 15th, edition of the Los Angeles Times, which was authored by Molly Hennessey-Fiske, reporting from Kabul, Afghanistan, Afghani mental health professionals are struggling to bring new approaches to the treatment of mentally ill patients in that war-torn country, and Hennessey-Fiske chronicles in the article some of the difficulties authorities have encountered while attempting to upgrade the country's treatment facilities.

            That's all just peachy, but what caught my eye was this paragraph; ready?

            "Experts estimate that 60% of the Afghan populace suffers from mild to severe mental illness."

            Replay, anyone?

            "Experts estimate that 60% of the Afghan populace suffers from mild to severe mental illness."

            60% of the population of Afghanistan can be characterized as having a "mild to severe" case of goofy-toots? Oh good, and they're our allies.

            Of course, they probably look at us and think, oh yeah, we're crazy, but you silly assholes elected George W. Bush President. TWICE. And we're crazy?

            Sure.

*From the Heroes Are Made, Not Drawn Department*

            I am ashamed to admit this, but after living in LA (pronounced LAH) for over ten years now, I just learned the other day that LA is the proud owner of a really, totally awesome statue of two of my favoritest childhood heroes...

            ...Rocky the Flying Squirrel and Bullwinkle J. Moose.

            And I didn't know, and I'm really ashamed, and embarrassed that I didn't know.

            The statue is actually owned by the daughter of the original owner, and the story of that, and how the statue came to be made and displayed at the Hollywood location where it has stood since 1961 and lots of really interesting stuff about the guys who created R & B is a REALLY long one that I won't repeat here because it's almost lunch time and I'm hungry. So here's the link to the article:

            http://articles.latimes.com/2011/may/15/local/la-me-then-20110515

            Go look, read, enjoy already. (I sound like a Jewish mother, and I'm not even Jewish, or a mother.)

So there you have it, fans of the Pope and his band of merry men, all the news that was fit to print, and some that wasn't. I'll let you decide the difference.

While you work on that, I'm going to work on getting the image of Shepard Boy in his best Victoria's Secret undies, performing some kind of weird sexual voodoo shit on that poor little goat in the Bedroom with the Knife. (I used to love playing "Clue" when I was a kid; now I'm an adult, using the term loosely, and I don't have one.)

Hey, that reminds me, have you guys seen the new Britney Spears vid yet? (One of the assistant directors on the video "shoot" asked Her Britness if she saw the henway. Brit says, henway, what's a henway? and the AD says, oh, about 4 pounds.)

Love and 1st Floor, Men's and Ladies, 2nd Floor, Furniture, 3rd Floor...(departments, get it? okay, it was a little esoteric),

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

God Of Wind

Nudh nuh nugh nuh nuh. Hudnd nugh nuh nugh.

Shit.

Hey, it's hard to talk when your tongue's hard. (God, that was crude.)

(To which God replied, "Yes, Pope, that was extremely crude, you douche-bag.")

Sorry. That, that is an amazing-looking automobile, but we'll get to that in a moment.

Now that I can talk again, hi-ho and do the hustle, I am hereby announcing that the Harley Dog and myself, your favorite Pope Guy, are going on strike. That's right, music lovers, we're striking as a protest against the cruel and despicable manner that has characterized the way the Bored Of Elders of the All John All The Time World Church has treated your Popeamundo and HD. Especially me.

(For you newcomers to the soothing balm of Johnism, "the Harley Dog" that I referred to above is Harley, the "official" canine of the AJATTWC, as well as my backup navigator when we're onboard my "official" atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding (RU Kidding for short), sidekick and roommate. That's a lotta' hats for one dog, but he's an exceptional dog. He's not as cute as he thinks he is, either. There's a picture of him to the right...no, doofuses, your other right.)

I am steadfast in my resolve, I am committed to my beliefs and I am deeply wounded. No, I mean it, this is insufferable, it is intolerable, it's like the stench that the Lakers left over the entire city of Los Angeles with their performance in the second round of the playoffs against the Dallas Mavericks this year, it's...not good.

If you go ALL the way back to 1/26 of this year, and check out the essay that I posted that day, I was talking about how much I really needed a "Popemobile", you know, a slick, pimped-out ride that I could call my own. (Do the "hip" people still say "pimped" or did I just embarrass myself?) Okay, I admit, I have expensive tastes, but, hey, I'm the Pope Dude, I should be entitled, all right?

Anyway, that's where it started. Yes, I have, at various times, asked for a Porsche, a Ferrari, a Jaguar and a Schwinn World bicycle, and I understand those are very expensive vehicles, but the position of Pope is one of image, and I thought a these various autos/bicycle represented my image favorably.

The Bored Of Elders, however, did not see it that way.

After the Bored turned down as "too extravagant" all of the above "suggestions", I decided that I would make one last attempt to obtain for myself, and by so doing, enhance the image of Your Pope, a really hot ride.

So, being a typical person of our Internet age, I jumped on Google and went looking.

(A brief pause to build a moment of solemnity...)

That is a Pagani Huayra (pronounced "Oh. My. God.").

Nugh, nuh nuh, hegh uh...sorry.

The powerplant is a Mercedes Benz V12 TwinTurbo 6.0 liter designed by AMG for MB engine that develops 700 HP (SEVEN HUNDRED HORSEPOWER) that pushes the Huayra to a top end of somewhere around the Speed Of Aroma (230 MPH).

Thank you, and good night.

I stumbled onto a short video of this beast; it appears to be of a couple of tech guys rolling out a prototype vehicle. You have to check this out; this is an amazing car. From the rear it looks like a spaceship.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SqWKWJ7jiCw

"Huayra" is the name of the ancient Andean God Of Holy Horsepower, Batman, They Want $1.4 Mil For That Son-Of-A-Bitch. Excuse me, God Of Wind, like as in how hard I broke same when I saw the price tag on that buggy. Those Pagani folks, they aren't bashful, I'll give them that.

What a beautiful example of the automotive art; granted that the perception of automobile building as an art requires one to get past thinking only of the functionality of the automobile, and admire certain autos as strictly objects d'art, rather than as examples of a useful, but mundane and everyday, conveyance. But once past, it is hard to imagine a more incredible exemplar of the art than this.

In other words, that is one maternal fornicator of a car, bro.

So I told the Bored, hey, I'll give up the Clippers season's tickets (oh yeah, that was hard, like giving up ringside seats to a live medical school presentation of the short piece, "The Proper Way To Perform A Colonoscopy"), and the Walmart discount card, and the $3.75 meal per diem AND the annual subscription to "DDD Beauties" (and go away and stop bothering them about a car), if they could see their way clear to allow me to purchase a...

...(a flourish of saxo, err, trumpets here please...)

...Pagani Huayra.

Just one.

And they said no. Again.

Assholes.

So Harley and I are on strike, and we aren't returning until our demands (see "***Demands***" below) are met. Or at least waved hello at.

***Demands***

            #1- a Pagani Huayra.

            #2- a lifetime subscription to "DDD Beauties"

            #3- and Harley wants a new chew toy, preferably one that squeaks

That's it.

So step up, B Of E, or me and the hound, we're outta' here, hasta la vista, bubala, which ain't Spanish for "Baby, You Can Drive My Car", one of my all time favorite Beatle tunes, okay? We're geography, dudes.

Hang on, the Popephone is ringing; it's probably the Bored calling, begging us to return.

"PJTT...hey, Mike, any news?...oh, they did?...no, I'm not surprised, I expected them to come crawling soon...they said what?......HOW long?...shit...shit...okay, we can go looking tomorrow...hey, what about the subscription...tell them I said that's cold...yeah...yeah...okay, gotta' go."

Shit.

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one who always stuck his tongue out when he drove to the hoop); he tells me he checked with the Pagani people: they only make 20 Huayras a year, and they're booked up through the next millennium. And he checked with the B Of E, and they said that, in light of my exemplary performance as Pope and my extensive contributions to the field of the humanities, or as the feminists would say, the hupersonities, they will allocate funds to allow me to buy a brand new...

...Ford Focus.

Stripped down version only, though, no CD player or GPS.

My, how the fallen have mightied.

At least they approved my subscription to "DDD Beauties"; their comment to Mike, to pass along to me, was that they understood how a man of my, delicately put, limited opportunities with the opposite sex might need some form of "alternative release", and they didn't want to seem "insensitive" by denying my request.

Assholes.

(Large sigh of resignation here.)

Love and Pintos,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Never On Sunday

No one is sure what motivated the Creator to suddenly get up one morning 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 various 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 other 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. He could have done the same thing for humans as well, if he would have known then what He knows now.

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 Dodgers embarrass themselves against the DBacks." 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 baseball. Or burgers, for that matter.

So the Creator rested on what came to be called the Sabbath, watched the Dodgers annihilate the DBacks, surprisingly, and got back to his job of the creation and ruling of His new universe 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 faithful 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 Sundays, huh? Yeah.

Love and triple time,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.