There's Hope For The Next Generation

Ring...ring...ri

"...PJTT...hey, hey, Quinn, how you doin'? I haven't heard from you since that Girl Scout cookie fiasco last year, what's new, buddy?...yeah...yeah...hey, so what's new in the legal world?...no shit...hey, how's Octavia?...great...she still pissed?...yeah, I'll bet...so what's up, what can your Pope do for you?"

As the Supreme Commander of the Galaxy, I am in charge now, wait, that's the wrong title, hang on...okay, here we go:

As the Pope of the All John All The Time World Church, I have the opportunity to meet all sorts of interesting people, and many space aliens as well. One of my favorite "meetings" was with a young man from Chicago named Quinn Tupletts, an attorney by profession, and a slightly crazy guy by disposition. We met some years ago at a Hooters Bikini Girl Contest out in San Diego; I was there representing the AJATTWC (no, really) and Quinn was there, acting as agent for one of the contestants, a young lady with two rather remarkable claims to fame: a) well, let's just say that her bra size needed more letters than numbers and b) her name was Rub Meallova. (The "Rub" was short for Ruby; nice girl.) It was an interesting three days.

Anyway, Quinn is a judge now and behaves himself. Mostly.

He's married to great gal as well; her name is Octavia (we all call her Oc for short), and she's a three-handed Scklorn Mutant from the Anopholes Nebulae (no she's not) and her fun-loving husband and I had an occasion some years ago, at a 4th of July backyard barbeque/gerbil golf tournament, to have some fun with the lovely Ms. Tupletts.

It all started when Quinn bet me 5 bucks that I couldn't roll a quarter off my forehead, down my nose and into a funnel tucked into the front of my pants. (Ever have Vodka Lemonade Slushes? You know, a quart of Stoly, three drops of lemonade and crushed ice to taste, right? Ever had one of those? Yeah? Then you know why this was happening.) That we were in collusion prior to the bet is an important factor to remember later in this story.

So I pulled a quarter out from behind Harley's ear, (see pic -->) which he hates, because he can't figure out how I do it, and Oc went in the garage and came back with a 6" funnel. I placed the business end of the funnel in the waistband of my surplice (hey, I'm the Pope Dude, remember?), and the game began.

I stood back from the crowd, tilted my head back, rested the quarter on my forehead just above my nose, took a downward glance for aim, and let'er rip.

First try, nothin' but net.

The lovely Ms. Oc was watching all this with some fascination (she also was suffering from the effects of SEVERAL Vodka Lemonade Slushes), and as her scheming husband and I had predicted, within seconds of my digging the quarter out of my pants (I asked for volunteers to assist me but got no takers; wait 'til that bunch tries to get into heaven, hah.), Oc says, "Hey, let me try that." (Thank you, P.T. Barnum; there's one born every minute.)

So I handed Oc the quarter and the funnel, explained the rules again (no hands, no body English and no iguanas) and bade her good luck. She positioned the funnel properly down the front of her shorts, set the quarter on her forehead and...

...while Oc and I had been talking and getting her ready for her attempt at coin-rolling immortality, with of course the enthusiastic support of the 12 or so other drunken revelers in the backyard, Quinn had walked quietly over to the "refreshment" table and grabbed the metal pail we had been using to chill some beers. It was your standard, everyday "metal pail with handle", and it was about two-thirds full of ice and melted ice. (That would be very cold water. And no beers.) So Quinn, equipped with the aforesaid bucket, snuck around from behind Oc, and...

...just before she could release the quarter, he stepped up and calmly dumped the entire contents of the bucket into the funnel.

Needless to say, the reaction was immediate and violent. Now you understand why I asked Quinn if Octavia was "still pissed" back there in the first paragraph.

Full disclosure: this all happened prior to my becoming the Pope of the AJATTWC.

"I heard an interesting case last week, a divorce/custody case involving a little eight-year old boy from Berwyn," he told me, and I could tell by his tone of voice he wanted me to ask.

So I did.

"Okay, what's so special about that?"

"Well, it was a custody battle between these two goofballs who were the parents of this poor kid. The kid didn't want to be with either one of them, and they were fighting over him just to be assholes."

"So I get everybody in court last week, and the lawyers start arguing and the parents are pointing fingers and I finally said, enough, and I had the bailiffs escort the parents out of the courtroom. When they were gone, I had the bailiff bring the little boy up to bench, and sat him in the witness chair."

"I said, 'Mikey, where would you like to live, with your Mommy or your Daddy?'"

"Mikey kind of shrugged his shoulders and didn't say anything."

"'How about with Mommy?' I asked him."

"He looked up at me on the bench and said, 'No, my Mommy beats me.'"

"Now everyone in the courtroom knew that this statement wasn't true; the child had never been harmed by either parent. But I decided to play along with him."

"'Okay, Mikey, how about if we send you with your Daddy then? How would that be?'"

"'No, Judge,' he says, 'please not with my Daddy, he beats me too.' Mikey let a small tear roll down his cheek as he told me this."

"Now I thought maybe the father was the final choice, when Mikey told me about his mother; now I'm not sure where I'm going. I think what he really wanted was to go back to his grandmother's."

"'Okay, Mikey, I'm sorry, but you can't go back to Grandma's, and you don't want to go with your Mommy because you say she beats you, and you don't want to go with your Daddy because you say that he beats you. Mikey, where do you want to go, please tell me?'"

"And so help me, Pope, he sat and thought about it for a long moment, then he looked up at me and got this real solemn look on his face."

"'Judge,' he says, 'I want to go with the Chicago Cubs. They don't beat anybody.'"

"I tried for several minutes to get the courtroom back in order, then I finally gave up and adjourned for the day. Mikey is still with his Grandmother for the moment. She's a White Sox fan."

He swore to me that it was a true story; I think I got hosed.

Love and homeruns,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Butch Celery And The Peapod Kid

As leader of the All John All The Time World Church, I try to keep myself informed of health issues that could potentially impact the members of my church, (yeah, all one of them) things like the spread of the HIV virus, vaccination of children against childhood diseases, flu shots and many others. But the one health issue that has me, as Pope of the AJATTWC, very concerned is the intestinal growth of vegetables. It's insidious, and it's here amongst us.

I recently learned of this dreaded nightmare from an article I read somewhere on the 'Net, about a man who, after complaining of abdominal distress and while being examined at a local emergency room, was found to have a pea plant growing in his stomach. Doctors theorized that the man, a middle-aged man named Jack, had apparently somehow eaten a pea that had then germinated in his stomach, and sprouted a root and what appeared to be the beginning of a stem. (I just remembered, Jack's thing was a beanstalk, wasn't it? Oh well, I guess I blew that one. The rest of the story is true.)

Now, I don't know about you, but the idea that there may be vegetative matter growing in my intestines creeps the shit outta' me. It's gotten so bad that now, whenever I eat things like tomatoes, with all those little seeds in the middle, I scrape them all out before I eat them. I really like tomatoes; I cook with them, put them on sandwiches, in salads, I like them fried in chocolate, hey, I even eat them sliced as a side dish. But not before I scrape the seeds out, because the last thing on earth I want is to have to go to the emergency room and then try and explain to some doctor why I have three feet of tomato plant stem growing out of my asshole. (It's hard enough trying to explain having three nipples, one of which is in the middle of my forehead.) No, no more tomato seeds for Mrs. Pope's son.

Now, with all that said, if I thought that would work with marijuana plants, I might give it a go, you know, fire up a batch of brownies, leave a few seeds in, and start harvesting my nether regions about three months later. Think of the money I would save on buying...well, never mind that now. And besides, I know that would probably violate a number of rules of the AJATTWC, and as the Popester, well, we can't have that now can we? You know, lead by example, like Bill Clinton did.

I also don't eat fresh pumpkin, for the same reason. (I once worked for a guy who used to eat peanuts in the shell...whole. Yep, peanut and husk, right over the tongue and down the old shoot. Can you imagine how hard that must be, outbound, on your asshole?)

(Popephone rings...)

 

"...JTT...hey, Mike, how was your weekend?...you were at that game? Awesome...I'm sorry?...whatta' you mean I can't say "asshole? Why not?...hey, it's better than wazoo, and it's a whole lot better than Republican...I have to say 'anus'? Geez, that sounds wimpy as hell...(big sigh of capitulation here)...all right, I'll change it...yeah, you too...yeah...talk to you later."

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one who was in "Space Jam"); he tells me the Bored Of Elders of the AJATTWC says I that can't say anything about lake fishing in the winter, where its necessary to cut an icehole to gain access to the fish.

 

Geez. 

 

Okay, here's the "edited" version:

 

Can you imagine how hard that would be, outbound, on YOUR ANUS? (That's a planet, right?)

This PC stuff is getting a little absurd, you know that? Next thing you know, I won't be able to say "asparagus" for fear of offending some arugula farmer somewhere. (For the longest time I thought "arugula" was an island in the Caribbean, you know, like "Arugula, Jamaica, oooh, I want to take you...")

And, apropos of absolutely nothing, "Aniston" is not only the last name of one of the major hotties of all time, but it's also a city in eastern Alabama, I recently learned. (Somebody explain to me how a guy can dump someone as gorgeous as Jennifer Aniston, which would be, in most guy's opinion, a MAJOR dumb move, and then move right in with Angelina Jolie. NOBODY normal has that kind of luck. As Pope of the AJATTWC, I'm having Brad Pitt investigated for possible dealings with the Devil; in the movie version, the role of Satan will be played by Jack Nicholson, who is of course, well-known Lakers fan.) (Jack's a Lakers fan, not Satan; he's a Pistons fan.)

Rutabaga is a small town in Lower Zimbabwe, isn't it? No, wait, that's Arugula.

Love and peapods,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Rocky And Bullwinkle Meet H. G. Wells

Dateline: Frostbite Falls Minnesota, home of the famous crime-fighting heroes, Rocket J. Squirrel and Bullwinkle J. Moose. (Do you think they both had the same middle name?)

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love and Dr. Spock,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

This One Is For You, Big Guy

"...so, you gotta' date this weekend?...what's Glor, I mean, what's Susie doing this weekend?...oh...hey, sorry, man, that's really too bad...yeah, she was a great gal, Mike, what happened?...yeah...yeah, I could see why that might have pissed her off...listen, dude, I gotta' go, you okay?...hey, hang in there, all right?...call me if you need to talk...okay, buddy...yeah, hey, we'll do Hooters next week, all right?...okay...talk to you later..."

Shit.

I was just on the Popephone with my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one that hangs around with Charles Barkley); he was telling me that he and his girlfriend Susie broke up last week. (Everybody here at the All John All The Time World Church, including me, your Pope Guy, called her Gloria, which was short for Gloria the Gorilla; not to speak ill of the departed (left, not dead), but Gloria had a small, ahh, how can I say this, body hair problem, shall we say? (She looked like she was going to leap into a tree and begin climbing at any moment. Nice girl. Having two eyes but only one eyebrow got her some attention as well.) Anyway, Mike is pretty upset, and I can understand how he feels, having been there once or twice in my life.

Of course, everybody around the office here at the AJATTWC thinks Mike is better off without "Gloria"; she treated him pretty shitty. But walking in and finding him in the bathtub, which was filled at that moment with several gallons of Wesson oil and a collection of USC cheerleaders (female ones only), wasn't designed to be the best method for maintaining connubial bliss. (She didn't buy the story about him trying to score some season tickets to the Trojan's football games. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have bought into that excuse either, and Susie is WAY smarter than I am, as are most women I know. Truth is, I think most women are smarter than ALL men, especially when it comes to the thinking we guys do with the parts of our bodies other than our brain.)

Which brings me to today's topic; advise. No, I don't have any.

But I get tons of letters, emails, texts, smoke-signals, faxes and intergalactic "spail" (that's "speed mail" for you uninitiated), asking me to offer some comforting words, or a bit of advise about a personal problem, or containing a cry for help, loud and clear, for some momentary solace over the loss of someone special in their lives.

So while I don't feel competent to write an "Advise Column", I thought that, periodically, I would entertain some of the communications that I receive from so many of you, my faithful followers, and try to give some insights into the murky realm of interpersonal relationships, based on the message of the soothing balm of Johnism.

(You buyin' into that? Good, I've got some land down in Florida I'd like to talk to you about.)

My first "supplicant", as it were, is a young man named TW (initials only, no names to protect the innocent, and the embarrassed); he writes:

Dear Pope Guy: My wife threw my out of our house several years ago on a cold, winter's evening, after she found out that I had had a "liaison" with a hooker while I was away from home on business. Actually, it was several "liaisons". Okay, I had a whole string of bimbos from coast to coast, and now I'm alone again, and my work is suffering and the lawsuits are starting to pile up. Pope, what can I do to get my wife to come back to me and forget the $100 Bajillion divorce settlement she wants? Signed, How Come There's Only White Balls In My Golf Bag?

Dear "Balls": Well, first off, nice job on the bimbos, dude; it's just like Gertrude Stein once said: "You can never be too rich, and you can never have too many bimbos." But buddy, not cool letting the wife find a text message on your cell phone from Bambie the Bimbo, making crude, but loving, remarks about your johnson; bad move, bro.

            I'd say you have two chances at getting the little women to return; slim and none. Probably best to move on with your life. Oh yeah, and open that checkbook, Birdie Boy, 'cause this one is going to cost you some BIG green's fees.

Or this one from NG:

Dear Popeamundo: I'm a middle-aged guy, married for the third time, and the current Mrs. G is starting to get suspicious about my reasons for wanting to return to public life; she thinks I'm going to go back to my "old" ways, back in the Jurassic period, when if it wore makeup and a skirt, I tried to make a move on it. (Got me into some serious trouble a few years ago when my aide and I walked into a gay bar by accident.) Anyway, she's concerned that it's "full blast and top down" once I get on the road again, and I'm taking a lot of heat at home, to say nothing of what I'm hearing from the media. Any ideas on how I can allay her fears? (Is that like "getting laid?") Signed, Eye Of Newt

Dear "Eye": Sleazebag. And you made ol' Bill C. look almost like a pillar of virtue, which is a hell of a job, lemme' tell you.

Or this cry of help from KK:

Deer Poop Johnn: Hey, who cars if our hole family has the IQ of soap, we have reelaty, err, rialety, shit, reality, there, shows up the wazoo, so who needs your stoopid "Advise Columm", huh? Who wants advisse from an old guy who doesn't even have a gurlfriend, anyway? That's so lame. Hey, do you know where I can get another toy Chiwhawa, ahh, Chiwowa, shit, dog for my purse? I ran over the lasted one I had with my Homer, err, Hummer. Signed, Lost In Hollywood, Which Is As Lost As You Can Get

Dear "Lost": The AJATTWC has an in-house charity called the Home For The Chronically Bewildered; I'm going to recommend to the Bored that you be given consideration as a potential resident of our facility. Oh, yeah, the pictorial in "W" magazine a few months ago was excellent.

Here's one I received just recently:

Dear Pope John The Tall: As we stand on the brink of another four years of lying, filthy Demo, ahh, of a Democratic White House...

That one wasn't supposed to be in this batch of mail.

Okay, here's one that I really haven't had a chance to read yet:

Dear Valued Customer: We see from our records that your subscription to "DDD Beauties" is about to lapse. Why not...

Whoa, THAT one sure wasn't supposed to be in here, either. Geez.

Okay, one more:

Dear Pope Dude: I was Marie Antoinette in another life, which has the benefit of never having to suffer from headaches in this life, but that's not the subject of this letter.

            I recently was on a "singles" cruise when this really nice-looking, but rather hairy, guy came up to me on the shuffle-board court and asked me if I would like to come to his stateroom and check out his collection of holy cards. Well, I was kinda' bored that day, so one thing led to another...

            We spent several wonderful days onboard, having romantic dinners, playing roulette in the casino, hitting gerbils off the fantail with five-irons, enjoying margaritas on the beach at St. Thomas while we watched the sunset, it was truly an idyllic voyage. But right before we docked, on the last day of the cruise, I lost touch with my "Harvey", as he called himself, and I haven't seen him since.

            One thing he mentioned, several times, during our brief time together; he told me he had an important position with your church. Can you help me locate my darling, please? The only other thing I know about him, besides the fur, was that he didn't have much skill with cutlery. Does that help identify him? Please let me know ASAP. Thanks. Signed, Left In The Lurch By Someone From Your Church

Dear "Left": Never heard of him.

That's all the letters I'm going to respond to for the moment; I'll do this again from time to time, to give what comfort I can to the "love afflicted" by extending the soothing balm of Johnism to them. In the meantime, I have a certain dog I need to go find and with whom I need to have a long talk.

The slut.

I knew letting him go on that cruise by himself was a bad idea, but I let him talk me into it, and here we are. "... he didn't have much skill with cutlery...". Geez, Harley, what a sleaze bucket you are.

Oh, here comes the mighty warrior now, back from the trenches of the war between the sexes. Hey, Lothario, what's happenin'? You big dummy, c'mere. (Lots of petting and wrestling and gentle tail-pulling and face-licking and all sorts of human/canine interaction takes place here.)

"Hey, you wanna' go bye-bye? Do you? Careful there, big guy, you wag that tail of yours any harder and it'll come off. Where's your leash, huh? Come on, go get your leash, good boy."

With my sidekick, roommate and backup navigator when we're onboard my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding, at my side, we're off to the beach to chase seagulls and good-looking women, preferably semi-clothed types. (The women, not the seagulls.)

And no more cruises, Dog Food Boy; I'm keeping you home, close to me, where you belong.

Because when you have Harley, you don't have any need to write letters to any Pope Guys for advise.

Love and better days,

PJTT and the Harley Dog

Copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Has It Caused Any Train Wrecks Yet?

Note to Mark Cuban, owner of the Dallas Mavericks NBA franchise, his coach, Rick Carlisle, his star player, forward Dirk Nowitzki, the rest of his very capable team members, including Jason Kidd, Jason Terry, Tyson Chandler, Shawn Marion and all the others, to all his staff of coaches, administrative people, and in fact, to all the wonderful folks involved with the Mavericks team there in Dallas:

If you don't want to see a tear in the fabric of the universe, do not allow the Miami Heat to win the NBA Finals, which start tonight in Miami against your team.

There will be fire, pestilence, civic unrest, rioting, looting, cow-tipping, people removing those tags on your mattress and box-spring that says "Do Not Remove This Tag, Felon Boy", chaos of an unimaginable magnitude and just a phalanx (the first time I saw that word in print I thought it meant something dirty) of citizens in this country who will fall to the ground and begin weeping uncontrollably and tearing at their clothes (all female NBA fans are strongly encouraged to engage in this last activity as much as possible) if the Heat wins.

It's just too awful to contemplate.

Due to limitations in space (that's how people refer to the Harley Dog and I anytime we're off on one of our "missionary" trips through the Universe in my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding), I'm not going to rehash all the media hype and nonsense coming out of Miami earlier this season when the Heat were building a roster and signing free-agent players as fast as Pat Riley, the President and Head Dude for the team, could get pens in their greedy huge hands. It was ugly, but so were a lot of my ex-girlfriends, which hasn't anything to do with the Miami Heat, but has a lot to do with why I'm still single at the ripe old age of 143.

So, Dallas, get out there and kick some Miami butt, okay? And don't get all puffed up with self-congratulations either; you weasels eliminated my Lakers in the second round, so I'm not cheering for you because your team suddenly became millionaire philanthropists and this is some outpouring of affection, I want you to win because I can't stand the idea of the Victory Parade taking place in South Florida. You're the proverbial "lesser of two evils".

Just not by much.

But if you think that LeBron James is big and ugly, which he is, take a look at that travesty at the top of the page, which, given the fact that it's one of the most startlingly unpleasant sculptures I've ever had the displeasure to view, I suspect you've already noticed.

That's the new statue of Pope John Paul II, which was recently unveiled in the Termini train terminal in Rome Italy.

No, it's not a statue of Benito Mussolini, the Italian ruler from back during WWII, although a number of residents of the Eternal City have likened it to the former dictator.

According to the article from the Associated Press, a sketch of the statue was seen and approved in advance by the Vatican. "Vatican spokesman, the Rev. Federico Lombardi, confirmed that the sketch 'received a positive opinion by the culture commission' of the Holy See. What happened between sketch stage and the final result, he couldn’t say." Sounds like the members of the "Culture Commission" were hitting the sacrificial wine a little hard that day. Geez.

The sculpture, recently erected to mark the late Pontiff's 91st birthday, which would have been on May 18th, was donated to the city of Rome by the "Silvana Paolini Angelucci Foundation, which is dedicated to humanitarian efforts". The Foundation avoided mentioning the controversy on its website; if it had been my money that paid for that thing, I wouldn't mention it either.

An online survey of Romans on the website of the daily newspaper, Il Messaggero, that asked residents of the city to comment on the statue, was running about 90% "Did Not Like (Sucked Big)" as of last week.

Okay, I'm no connoisseur of fine art; yes, I used to be a member of the Art Institute in Chicago, and I love great paintings and sculpture, and I could have spent days wandering around the Institute's exhibits. But for all that, no, I don't know much about art (or his brother, Mat, the one that lays on the floor all the time), but I know what I like, and boy, is that thing awful.

Not to denigrate another artist's work, but I'd have a hard time signing my name to that abortion. That's taking ugly to a whole new level. (My ex-, Dee Dee Spanxalot, took things to a whole new level on many occasions; unfortunately, it always seemed to be on a downward spiral, rather than upward. All those sultry nights, the satin sheets, the candles and soft music, the Sousaphone and the 55-gallon drum of Lime Jello, boy, those were, ahh, interesting times indeed.)

Since the newspaper Il Messaggero decided to take a poll of what people think of the new piece, I think we Americans should have a similar organ for our opinions; accordingly, I'm launching a new survey, which will be called "Rating Religious Art". In this simple test of "like/dislike/hate/wish they would burn it" artistic point of view, citizens will be asked to compare various pieces of "religious" art; for example, in one set, the survey respondent will be asked to judge the relative qualities of the Michaelangelo's "Pieta", the "Last Supper" by da Vinci, the Sistine Chapel depiction of God touching man, again by Michaelangelo and the...Pope John Paul II sculpture by artist Oliviero Rainald.

I've got the da Vinci and six points.

Tell you what, let's keep it simple. By show of hands, all those of you who think the new statue of Pope John Paul II is as ugly as a duffle-bag full of assholes, puttem' up...one, two, five, seven, twelve, two hundred ten, okay, there's a bunch of you.

Now, all those that like the new statue, also by show of hand...just that one guy, huh? (Must be the artist.)

I'm going to direct my staff to compose a letter to Pope Eggs Benedict, asking that, in the name of good taste and good art everywhere, the new statue of PJPII by taken down, dismantled and melted down into, well, whatever people use bronze for these days. (FYI, the "Bronze Age", the transitional period between the Stone Age and the Iron Age, took place roughly from 3300 B.C. through 1300 B.C. That was even before my time, although not much. I told my friend Ron the other day that one of the things I hate most about getting older is that my age is rapidly catching up to my IQ, which means I'm really getting old, or I'm really dumb; okay, it could be both.) The world already has enough eyesores as it is, with oil spills and strip-mining and over-crowded cities and billboards and Rosie O'Donnell and boy, the list just goes on, doesn't it?

In my letter to my fellow Popeperson, I'll urge that, for all of the above reasons, the new "stat" has to go; I don't care where especially, just make it be gone.

And if Strudel Boy can find a way to make that abomination disappear, maybe we can get him to work on LeBron James next.

Hey, LeBron, here's some perspective for you and all of your egotistical, self-centered, narcissistic fellow athletes; guys, if you couldn't throw, hit, shoot or catch a ball of some sort, many of you would be the biggest, tallest hamburger-flippers ever employed at McDonalds. Not all of you, in fact, not even most, because there's a lot of great people in professional sports, and many, many decent ones as well. But for all of the LeBrons, and the Chad Johnsons and the Terrell Owens and the ARods and the Pete Roses and all the other douche-bag jerks who think that skill on the playing field equates to a feeling of superiority over your fellow humans, yeah, guys, this butt's for you.

I hear Pat Riley is taking bids for a statue of LeBron James to be erected in front of the American Airlines Arena, where the Heat play their home games. Hey, Pat, I know the name of a sculptor that's available. I hear he works cheap, and you know, big guy, you get what you pay for.

Love and Rodin,

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.

Shame On You, Shame On Me

I've had several of my faithful followers ask me to comment on the events of last weekend; you will recall that the Christian commentator, Harold Camping, predicted that, according to his interpretation of the mathematics in the Bible, the world would end on May 21st.

As of May 22nd, we're still all here. Gee, what a surprise.

Camping now admits that his calculations for the original "doomsday" were incorrect and that, after recomputing the numbers, the new date for the final day of our existence is now October 21st. (Hey, he only missed by five months; predicting the end of the world must be a lot like horseshoes and hand grenades, all you gotta' be is close.)

My position as Pope of the All John All The Time World Church requires that I make some observation about Mr. Camping's predictions; however, I'm inclined not to do so. As I told one of my flock the other day, commenting on Camping and his nonsense is like picking a fight with a third-grader; it's not much of a challenge.

But I'll say this much, and then get on to the rest of my life: a very wise gentleman once remarked to me that if you fooled him once, shame on you. If you fooled him a second time, shame on him.

And while I feel some degree of compassion for the families of the people who were already taken in by this lying piece of camel dung, guess what?

If you buy into his bullshit a second time, shame on you.

And maybe I shouldn't say this, but for my money, if you bought into it the FIRST time, shame on you.

Mr. Camping, do all of us that have some sense a favor: shut up and go away. You're wasting good oxygen that one of the rest of us could be using. No one with an IQ of over room temperature believes your garbage anyway, so spare us, okay?

Dean Acheson, who was the Secretary of State under President Harry Truman, and was a highly intelligent and principled gentleman, once remarked, in reference to the First Amendment's "freedom of speech" clause, that "Freedom of speech is a restraint on government, not an incitement to the citizen."

In other words, Harold, just because you have the right to speak doesn't mean you necessarily should.

I suppose the next thing you'll tell us is that the Cubs will win the Series this year, when anyone with any knowledge of the Bible, err, of the MLB and baseball know the Dodgers are going all the way this year.

(Waits until laughter dies down to continue.)

Yeah, and next week Earth will receive a cryptic yet decipherable message from somewhere in deep outer space, explaining how to build an incredible machine that will allow us to accelerate several astronauts to the Speed of Aroma and deposit them on the shore of a mysterious beach that faces a vast, placid ocean on an unknown planetoid in the Aldoran Nebulae, after they all turn a bright chartreuse pink and grow a left-handed tentacle. And a third eye. No, wait, that was the basic plot of the book (and movie) "Contact", except the part about the turning chartreuse pink and growing a tentacle and a third eye; I made that part up. (Hey, I've had girlfriends whose looks would have been vastly improved by turning chartruese pink and growing a left-handed tentacle and a third eye.) (Several.)

Hey, Harold, when you can accurately predict the stock market and this year's NBA Finals winner (Mavericks), lemme' know, because then you're onto something useful.

Unlike yourself.

Love and Nostradamus,

PJTT

Copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.