Bad Habits

Завальцовка, завальцовка, завальцовка Завальцовка, завальцовка, завальцовка Завальцовка, завальцовка, завальцовка Завальцовка, завальцовка, завальцовка Яловка Roiling, свертывать, свертывая Хотя потоки опухнуты Держите их свертывать doggies Яловка Дождь и ветер и погода Ад согнул для кожи Желать мой gal был моей стороной Все вещи I' m missin' Хорошие vittels, lovin' , kissin' Ждите в конце моей езды Двиньте ' em дальше, head' em вверх Головка ' em вверх, move' em дальше Двиньте ' em дальше, head' em вверх Яловка Отрежьте ' em вне, езда ' em внутри Езда ' em внутри, отрезанное ' em вне Звонок ' em вне, езда ' em в яловке Содержание двигая, двигать, двигая Однако they' re осуждая Держите их двигать doggies Яловка Don' попытка t для того чтобы понять ' веревочка em как раз, ход и тавро ' em скоро we' ll жило высоко и широко Мое сердце calculatin' Моя истинная влюбленность будет waitin' Ждите в конце моей езды Двиньте ' em дальше, head' em вверх Головка ' em вверх, move' em дальше Двиньте ' em дальше, head' em вверх Яловка Отрежьте ' em вне, езда ' em внутри Езда ' em внутри, отрезанное ' em вне Звонок ' em вне, езда ' em в яловке Двиньте ' em дальше, head' em вверх Головка ' em вверх, move' em дальше Двиньте ' em дальше, head' em вверх Яловка Отрежьте ' em вне, езда ' em внутри Езда ' em внутри, отрезанное ' em вне Звонок ' em вне, езда ' em в яловке Завальцовка, завальцовка, завальцовка Завальцовка, завальцовка, завальцовка Завальцовка, завальцовка, завальцовка Завальцовка, завальцовка, завальцовка Яловка Яловка.

The above are the lyrics for the theme song of the 1950s TV show, "Rawhide", translated into Russian. I thought it was something you might need. Which, by the way, has nothing to do with the two pictures at the top of the page; I'll get into that in a moment.

. That's "Rawhide" in Russian; I had to draw the characters of the title (<---, back there) in Paint because I couldn't seem to get that part to "copy/paste" like the rest, err, excuse me, I had some problems printing that word after I spent hours painstakingly doing the translation. Anyway, the next time you're sitting around, hoisting a few cold ones and watching Russian language reruns of old '50s TV Westerns, hey, now when "Rawhide" starts, (featuring a VERY young Clint Westwood as Rowdy Yates, a sensitive but tough cowboy who loves Chopin but hates Comanche's. Not the Native American tribe, no, the Jeep-Eagle brand pickup truck that they marketed a few years ago with that name, Comanche. Rowdy thought they were really ugly.) Yeah, sing along if you like. Or if not, then sit there and be quiet so I can hear the show.

Hey, is your Pope looking out for you or what? How many other leaders of MAJOR religions like the All John All The Time World Church would take the time from their busy day to do complicated translations for their flocks to use and cherish? Besides, how many people in the world can say that they can sing the theme song to "Rawhide" in Russian, huh? Yeah, I thought so.

I got some good news just as I was finishing the above translation; my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one who used to live in North Carolina) called and told me that the Bored Of Elders of the AJATTWC has decided to establish a society of nuns, under the sponsorship of the Church, to assist myself and the Harley Dog with the tremendous task of spreading "the soothing balm of Johnism" to the world. (For those of you who are new followers of the Pope, the "Harley Dog" I mentioned in the previous sentence is my sidekick, roommate and best buddy in the whole world, commonly known as Harley, and that's his smiling face there to the right...no, you doofuses, your other right...geez...--->, there, does that help?)

Anyway, the tentative name for the new society of nuns that will be chartered under the auspices of the AJATTWC will be (remember, this is tentative) "The Popettes".

"The Popettes." It's got a nice ring to it, don't you think?

"PJTT and the Popettes, featuring The Harley Dog, now appearing everywhere. Check your local paper for details."

Okay, "The Popettes" is a little informal for a religious community; you know, I was just trying to liven things up a little. Boy, let's not anyone have any fun around here, okay?

The real (but still tentative) name for the new group of nuns will be...ready?..."The Society Of Our Lady Of The Holy Fundament".

How's that for a mouthful? (You know, I have never had a woman say that to me.)

Although the Human Resources Department (motto: You Hire'em, We'll Fire'em) is still conducting interviews for the position of Head Nun (don't you even think of it, you dirtbags), the general consensus around the AJATTWC office is that the front runner for the position is Sister Fredrika "Gonad" Tutwiler, a lady with an impressive resume and a set of guns that would entitle her to play linebacker in the NFL. The only reason she doesn't tryout is that she thinks football isn't "violent" enough against sinners. (Sister Fredrika, or "'Nad", as she's affectionately known in convent circles, once tried to crash a Miley Cyrus concert, attempting to rush on stage and "snatch the hair from that Whore Of Babylon".

Nice gal; I can hardly wait to work with her.

One of the details that has to be decided on by the Church staff is what the new "uniform", or as it's known in the "business", the "habit", will look like for the new order. We've had a number of samples submitted to us by various purveyors of religious clothing, and I've included two of the more revealing, err, more interesting choices that we've had to consider. (Please see the above pictures; I asked for more samples, but was told by the Church physician, Dr. Doolittle, that I should take two aspirin, spend the evening at Hooters and call him in the morning with a full report.)

Both "habits" seem appropriately religious (yeah, if you attend church at the Playboy Mansion), and both would seem to be religiously appropriate. Myself, I'm leaning towards to one on the left, thinking that it's more demure "sans décolletage", which is Russian for "whatta' ya' mean, we're outta' vodka?". Besides, I'm afraid the white stay-up, thigh-high stockings would be a problem in the jungles of Lower Zimbabwe, if we ever get called to go there, so that other "habit" probably won't work.

The staff here at the AJATTWC is having the same problem deciding between the two uniforms, and there have been arguments, and discussions, and "brain-storming" sessions, and debates and whatever, and they've still not reached a decision.

So here's what I suggested: let our faithful followers, the very spine and bedrock (sounds like the name of one of those TV fitness "plans"; you know the ones, where some semi-well known celebrity, who has suddenly, at the age of 74 and after years of being a slovenly pig, exercised themselves into muscle-bound, speed-freak who now has had an "epiphany" about personal fitness and can't wait to tell you, and sell you) of the AJATTWC, make the decision.

So here you go, readers of the Pope Person and other slightly interested parties, here's your chance to speak out, and cast your vote for which of the above "habits" (and there's a couple of habits I wouldn't hurry to break) will be the new apparel for the Sisters of All John All The Time World Church, The Society Of Our Lady Of The Holy Fundament.

What an awesome responsibility; I shudder at the load that I have placed upon your narrow shoulders.

Harley and I have requested a "private viewing" of models wearing the various candidates for the new habit, not only the ones pictured above, but a number of others as well, secondary choices as it were. Harley and I feel that this situation, the choosing of a "uniform" for one of our representative Church groups, should be approached in an extremely serious manner, as its a matter of "image", and how the Church is viewed by those of you who are not Members, those of you who are still living, slutty, sinful lives without the soothing balm of Johnism. We're both very excited about this oppor...damn, there goes the Popephone...

"...PJTT...Mike, how are you, what's up?...yeah, I'm just working on the announcement now...okay...okay...why not?...come on, we were just having a little fun...geez, where's their sense of humor, the old farts...(large sigh of capitulation here)...all right, no private viewing...but we're still having the contest, right?...okay...yeah...yeah, I'll send it over as soon as I'm finished here...yeah, okay, call me later, hey, Dodgers/Rockies tonight, Kershaw's pitching, we got a sawbuck on this one, don't forget, okay?...yeah, later."

Assholes.

The Bored Of Elders has decided that there will be no "private viewing" for HD and myself; it seems some of the models took exception to our attempts to recreate the Marilyn Monroe "She Gets Her Skirt Blown Up Over The Subway Grating" shot in the movie "The Seven Year Itch" by using air-hoses the guys back in the hangar hooked up for us, and went and complained.

HD and I got our peenies whacked for that one; I don't know, I thought it was pretty funny, and so did Harley apparently. He was racing around all those models like he had the makeup concession at a Lady GaGa concert.

So no private viewing for the Dirt Bag Dog and his Pope.

Okay, so here's what to do; go to an ATM, withdraw as much cash as you're allowed and send it to: Pope Guy, AJA...well, never mind that now. In the Comments section (below), cast your vote. The habit on the left, commonly known as "#1", or the habit on the right, known as, cleverly, "#2".

Number one or number two.

Hell, even Sarah Plain and Loud couldn't screw this one up too much. Hey Sarah, did you miss school the day they taught American History?

Although if Sarah wants to text me some pics of her in her long-johns, I'd love to have them; I'll put them up in my wallet, right next to my pics of Newt Gingrich in a teddy.

Love and convents,

PJTT and the Harley Dog

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.

The Eight Dwarves

(Hey, faithful followers, how they hangin'? Your favorite Pope Guy (me) decided to rerun an essay I wrote back on April 21st of this year, which was all about the eight major (at that time) contenders for the Republican Party Presidential nomination. After yesterday's fiasco by Presidential wannabe and expert in American History, Sarah Plain And Loud, I thought another run at "The Eight Dwarves" was warranted. Buckle up, kids, it may get ugly.)

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

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

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

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

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

Mitt Romney

Newt Gingrich

Tim Pawlenty

Haley Barbour

Sarah Palin

Mike Huckabee

Donald Trump

Michelle Bachmann

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

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

Mitt Romney-

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

Newt Gingrich-

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

Tim Pawlenty-

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

Haley Barbour-

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

            Thank God.

Sarah Palin-

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

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

Mike Huckabee-

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

Michelle Bachmann-

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

Donald Trump-

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

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

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

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

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

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

Never mind, I'm too honest.

Love and ballots,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

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.