What Does Steven Spielberg Have That I Don't, Besides Talent, Money And Kate Capshaw

It was back on 2/22, the day before my birthday, which is apropos of nothing, that I made the comment in my post from that day (please see "Second Star To The Right And Straight On To...Cleveland) that the way the Los Angeles Lakers were playing at the time, that they would make it to, but not out of, the second round of the playoffs.

Yesterday afternoon, the Dallas Mavericks eliminated the Lakers four games to NONE in their second round matchup of this year's NBA Playoffs.

Assholes.

And back on 4/25, I posted an essay that contained a partial "screenplay" of an animated video I had decided to make about the Pope (that would be me) and the Harley Dog (that would be Harley, the "official" canine of the All John All The Time World Church and my sidekick and roommate), and have it showcase one day in the lives of the Pope Guy and Harley as they battle the forces of evil and sluttiness all over the world. I asked all of you loyal followers of the Pope to give me your suggestions as to how I could "punch up" the script, and after looking them all over (all two of them), I decided to dump what I was working on and take a whole different approach.

Which I did.

But I did finish the screenplay, and you can check it out below.

I also finished the video about the Pope, and it's called "The Pope John Cheer", and you can check it out at:
<http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/11995168/the-pope-john-cheer>.

WARNING:
          The video "The Pope John Cheer" contains two instances of flatulence. From a female character. For which she apologizes both times. (The second one is a really good one, too.)

Like so many of your Pope's efforts, this one is pretty funny (pardon me if I do say so myself) and is being considered for an Oscar in the category of Best Animated Short By A Pope, which I think I have a good shot at winning, considering the competition. (Yeah, the only Pope competition I have is from Strudel Boy over there in Rome, you know, the genius who recently published a book that said, among other things, that the Jews didn't kill Jesus, the Romans did, and that he thought the Jews ought to be left off the hook for that crime after all these years. You just now figured that out now? What Bible have you been reading, huh? Geez, I knew the Jews were innocent of that charge when I was a kid back in grade school at Our Lady Of Perpetual Motion, even though the good nuns were still trying to pin the deed on descendants of David, the King.)

But I digress, which if you're a regular reader of the Pope's, you know it's something I do frequently. And with no apologies.

So check out the unused screenplay that appears below; it's still a good glimpse into the inner workings of the AJATTWC, what few there are, and shows in vivid detail, how decisions of momentous proportions are made at the highest levels of leadership in our country.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Pope, Harley and the Pope's consigliore, Mike.

OPENING SCENE

A voice-over announcer begins speaking, over a patriotic background of a waving American flag, with a choir, off-camera, softly singing "America The Beautiful".

A: "A rising tide of hysteria and ambergris is sweeping over our nation today, as citizens pour from their homes to protest economic conditions, quality healthcare issues, unemployment and a raft of other social ills, including a serious dearth of Lindsay Lohan films. The people are up in arms, and leaders are needed to steer the course of our mighty nation away from the rocks and shoals of tyranny and chaos and back onto the road that leads to peace and security."

            "But where will these leaders come from? Politicians in Washington are grid-locked, as always, on how to approach the problems that face our country, with partisanship and political party "loyalties" preventing any meaningful dialogue that addresses the issues that the people are protesting. Congress and the President can't seem to be found, and our nation needs a man to step up and be a symbol, a guiding light, to the citizens all over our great land."

            "Is there such a man? Is there a leader out there to give us the benefit of his strength and courage? Is there a man who can turn the tide of history and lead us back to the good times of years gone by? Where is that man?"

ACT I, SCENE I

Office scene, with the Pope, Harley Dog

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

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

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

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

SCENE II

Street scene, with Protestor #1, Protestor #2

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

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

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

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

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

SCENE III

Scene dissolves back to Pope's office with P and H.

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

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

Harley shakes his furry head in disbelief.

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

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

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

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

H: (interrupting) "What women?"

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

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

SCENE IV

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

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

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

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

SCENE V

Scene dissolves back to Pope's office, with Harley and the Pope, and new character, Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one that played baseball for the Birmingham Barons), who is the Pope's consigliore. M is standing to the side of P's desk.

P: "Mike, what can we do about the riots? Should I release some kind of statement, make an appearance, play some gerbil golf, what's our approach here?"

M: "Well, Your Loftiness, there are several ways to approach this situation. A round of gerbil golf probably isn't a good idea right now, okay, so let's get that out of the way right out of the gate."

P: "Shit."

M: "Well put, Your Immenseness, very descriptive. Okay, what's our reaction to the situation in the streets? I think we low-key it, and let events run their course..."

P: (interrupting) "I thought we weren't playing gerbil golf?

M: "No, Your Thickness, "run their course" is just a saying; it means we let things develop naturally, without any interference from us. The saying has nothing to do with golf courses." (The consigliore turns away from the Pope towards Harley briefly, and raises his eyebrows at Harley, shaking his head slightly.) "But we will have to have you make some kind of general statement, deploring the violence..."

P: (interrupting again) "Hey, what's wrong with violins? I LIKE violins."

M: "No, Your Grace, v-i-o-l-e-n-c-e, violence, not violins, you deplore the violence in the streets."

P: "Oh."

SCENE VI

Back in the streets again with all the rioters, and the two Protestors, #1 and #2. The situation is still chaotic, and there are more people now running about, breaking windows, terrifying citizens and making them afraid to leave their homes, defying authority, stampeding people and raping cattle. (Thank you, Mel Brooks.)

P #1: "Hey, how about those Dodgers? A new manager, now we got Davey Lopes coaching at first, MLB takes over the team and throws Frank McShitwad out, hey, what a way to start the season, huh?"

P #2: "Yeah, and they beat the Cubs two out of three at Wrigley last week, even better. They might have a decent season yet."

P #1: "Hey, aren't we due at the effigy burning in 10 minutes?"

P #2: "Shit, yeah, we gotta' go, dude."

The two protestors hustle off, stage left. (You know, "Exit, stage left.")

SCENE VII

In the office of RRMMJ, with M talking on the phone.

M: "...yes, sir, that's going to be the Pope's position on the "disturbances"...no, sir, he won't be playing gerbil golf until the crisis is over and things return to normal...yes, sir, I realize "normal" for Pope John is something different from other people's "normal", but I'm sure you get my drift...yes, sir, he will ask the protestors to return to their homes immediately before martial law is invoked by you...yes, sir...yes, sir...no, we won't let him make any other statements...a muzzle and a whip...yes, sir, I'll tell him...thank you, sir, the best of luck to you as well."

P walks in just as M is hanging up the phone.

P: "Mike, what's the latest?"

M: "Well, sir, I just got off the phone with the President; I advised him of your statement and what you plan to say to the protestors. He was concerned, sir, that you might, how can I say this, ahh, step on your johnson with the folks on the streets if you aren't careful, you know, maybe say the wrong thing, make matters worse somehow..." M's voice peters out at the end of the sentence.

P: (not really listening, looking nervous and uncomfortable) "Do we have enough Girl Scout cookies on hand, in case things get really ugly out there and we can't place an order for more? I don't want to run out of Thanks-A-Lots."

M: "Yes, sir, there's several cases in the storeroom, and more on order."

As the two men are talking, Harley walks in the office, stands in one place for a moment, and then walks out, never saying a word. Suddenly, both men get pained looks on their faces and, placing their hands over their noses, walk simultaneously to the open window.

M: (gasping and keeping his nose covered with his hand) "Geez, what do you feed him, roadkill? Nothing that isn't already dead should smell that bad."

P: (also gasping and dry-heaving) "Dry dog food, I swear that's all he gets, its like breathing the air here in the Valley gives him gas. Man, that's awful."

ACT II, SCENE I

In the Pope's office again, with P behind desk, staring at cameras across from him at the far side of the room. He is addressing the cameras, and has some papers on the desk in front of him. P appears in his "Pope" clothes, a surplice and the tall "Pope" hat.

P: "...and so, in conclusion, my fellow Americans, let me just say that until and unless all protestors stop their illegal acts and vacate the streets, law and order cannot be restored and the Girl Scouts will continue to have great difficulty in making their deliveries, which is a situation that none of us want. Please, I implore you, cease your activities and go back to your homes so your government can begin to get things back to where they belong, and we can start to undress the issues that you have raised."

(A quick cut to M's face as he grimaces at hearing P say "undress".)

P: (continuing his speech) "Thank you for taking the time to listen to what I had to say here this evening, and so you know, my staff is currently working on scheduling a tour for myself and the Harley Dog, where we'll travel to as many cities as humanly and caninely possible, bringing the soothing balm of Johnism to you all. Watch for announcements as to where and when we'll be appearing."

            "Please, if you love your country and great cookies, please, all of you, return to your homes and let's give peace a chance." (In the background, a choir in robes files into the Pope's office, humming quietly, and lines up in rows adjacent to the P's desk, and with a signal from their director, who filed in with them and took a place in front of the group, they begin singing "All We Are Saying Is Give Peace A Chance".)

P: (over the singing) "Thank you, my fellow Armenians, and may Dagon bless. And Go Dodgers!"

(Another quick cut to the face of M, grimacing again at the Pope's words.)

Director: (off camera) "Cut, that's a wrap."

(Cut back to P, who is removing a tiny microphone from where it was clipped on his vestments.)

P: "Well, whatta' ya' think, that went pretty good, didn't it?"

M: "Yes, Your Unbelievableness, it went fine."

Just then, the Harley Dog walks in the Pope's office, stops in the middle of the floor, stands for a moment, and then leaves again, without saying a word.

And suddenly both men grab their noses and head out of the office in a rush, as the scene fades to black.

The End.

So whatta' think, it's Oscar material, right? (Yeah, Oscar the Grouch.) Anyway, Harley really liked it a lot; he was particularly pleased with the "flatulence" scenes. (Have you noticed a flatulence trend here?)

And of course, the Hollywood bug has bitten him: he demands to have some input into who plays him in the video; he wants James Franco, but that's a no-go for yours truly, because I thought Franco dissed Anne Hathaway at this year's Oscars, and since I also think that AH is a MAJOR cutie/hottie, no Franco.

I'm thinking of Zelda Rubenstein to play the Pope, you know, the tiny little actress who played in "Poltergeist", which, by the way, is the German word for "Roman-hater".

Love and Academy Awards,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Never On Sunday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love and triple time,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

It's The Little Old Lady From Pasa, Err, Loudon NH

Now I don't want any of you to look at the picture above until...I said DON'T look, you gooses...well, it's just too late now, isn't it?

Since all of you already looked, even though I asked you all not to, as punishment, I'm not going to tell you about the picture until later in this post. You couldn't behave, so now you'll just have to wait.

***AND NOW, THE 2011 WINNER OF THE O. HENRY SHORT STORY AWARD***

"Once upon a time, there was a Pope Guy named John The Tall, and he was the Popeamundo for the All John All The Time World Church. He's the one writing this essay.

The end."

Okay, it's a real short story, much like the list of appearances in the World Series by the Chicago Cubs. Or like the length of time the Lakers spent in the playoffs this year.

But the real story here today is getting old, well, the story isn't getting old, it's ABOUT getting old, a subject with which I am well acquainted. Too well, in fact, for my money, although, considering the alternative, I guess I can take getting old.

As I suspect was the case with most of you, I was a) very young and b) very naked when I was born, or so I'm told, since my recollection of the whole experience is vague. Given that we only actively use about 10% of our brain capacity, with the Washington and Hollywood crowds working on closer to -62% of theirs, I've often wondered if somewhere, back in the deep, hidden recesses of our brains, that there aren't memories, maybe even vivid memories, of every moment in our lives, our birth, our first meal, our first step, the first time we puked after being overserved by some inconsiderate bartender, everything we've ever done as a person, stored away in some kind of organic hard-drive that we've just never learned to access properly.

Anyway, I'm getting old; I hit ** on my last birthday, back in February, and all of a sudden, it seems like I'm in the fast lane to Forest Lawn. (For you non-Southern California types, Forest Lawn is a HUGE local cemetery, with all sorts of tacky advertising and celebrity "residents" and has been the subject of all kinds of SoCal insider jokes for years.) I have never in my life been more aware of my own mortality then I have been recently. I wouldn't say that it's gotten to the point of fixation, but it's become a common theme in my nightly assessment of my life and my activities. (After I reread that last sentence, I realized that it sounded a lot more introspective than I intended. Or that I'm capable of, for that matter.)

I come from a long line of old people, on both sides. Shit, if my family were trees, we'd have a boatload of those internal rings scientists use to determine a tree's age on us, believe me. Three out of four of my grandparents made it into their 90's (other than my paternal granddad, who took the last, long step in his mid-60's; according to the death report, he died of a heart attack, but I knew my grandmother well, and I'm pretty sure the real story is that Grandpa bailed out to get away from her), I have a number of aunts and uncles who are in or have made it into their late-80's or early 90's, my dad was almost 89 when he passed away and the best one of all is my mother, who is still alive and ornery as ever (and still living by herself) at the ripe old age of 96.

I've become preoccupied with my age, and isn't it interesting that so many of us become preoccupied with our age when our preoccupation with sex starts to wane, although mine hasn't, even if I have slowed down some. Yeah, I don't think about sex NEAR as much as I used to, no more than 3 or 4 hundred times a day, compared to THOUSANDS of times a day when I was younger and could still do more than just think about it. (The proverbial "they" claim that sex is just like riding a bike; once you learn how to do it, you should have a complete understanding of nuclear physics, ah, sorry, you never forget how, and I'm praying that's true, because I'd hate like hell to FINALLY get lucky, and then, at the most critical moment, forget what goes where. A good friend of mine once told me he thought it was pretty much "insert Tab A into Slot B" and proceed accordingly. Hell, even I can't screw that up too bad, and I could screw up a two-house paper route.)

So what does all this have to do with the AJATTWC and your good Pope John?

Not a damn thing, but I needed something to lead into my main story, which is coming up next, so ease up, okay? Geez.

So, ever wonder what you'd like to do to celebrate your 100th birthday? No, I haven't either, but Rachel Gilbert, who recently celebrated her centennial, was given a hell of a gift by her family on hers: a chance to hit 100 again, this time on the racetrack at Loudon NH behind the wheel of a NASCAR vehicle. Interestingly, according to the report from NewsCore, Gilbert gave up her driver's license back in 1995, so had to be driven to the track by her family, who arranged the entire event with track officials. Not that she has much business driving around at 100 anyway, either age or MPH.

After whizzing around the course for several laps, Ms. Gilbert pulled into the infield and did several doughnuts, and then brought'er into the pits, then after shuttin' her down and wriggling out of the driver's side window, she received a birthday card, a NASCAR jacket autographed by her favorite driver, Carl Edwards, and a magnum of champagne roughly the size of Cleveland, which she proceeded to chug down until she passed out and was then carried from the pit area, laughing maniacally and muttering that she could drive rings around Jeff Gordon any day.

You gotta' love this old broad, and I say that in the most respectful way possible.

I once outraged my beautiful daughter, Hiram, (which, by the way, is quite common; I outage her on a fairly regular basis), by telling her that I wanted die at 90, in bed naked with a 21-year old blond with enormous hands. On the downstroke.

Okay, at 90, the sex probably won't be great, but it might be enough to make all those years of struggle to get that far worthwhile; hey, Rachel Gilbert got to hit the century mark in a hot car on her 100th, so why not, right? Stranger things have happened.

And don't tell me they haven't, okay, because I know better. Want me to prove it?

The citizens of this country elected George W. Bush to be President of our country.

Twice.

In both instances, Bush did well with the "over 60" demographic, which would lead one to believe that, in a lot of instances, getting older might make you a little crazy (see above) but it doesn't necessarily make you any smarter.

Or in my case any better looking.

Love and Geritol,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

R Kives

Okay, by show of hands, how many of you wouldn't mind "surfing" through the archives of your Pope Guy's Greatest Hits over the next few days while I attend to other All John All The Time World Church matters, such as poverty, disease eradication, the spiritual health of my flock and what to do with all those 8-track tapes I still have down in the garage?

Let's see, one, two, four, eight, nine, okay, there's a few of you.

So tell you what, oh ye loyal followers of Pope John The Tall, (every time I write that I get this quick mental image of a cartoon show that I used to watch when I was a kid; it was the Garfield Goose And Friends show, and it was hosted by a fat, jolly guy named Frasier Thomas, who, when he would introduce Garfield (all the characters were hand puppets) at the beginning of the show, would say, "Garfield Goose, (slight pause here), King Of The United States", in a very solemn, breathy kind of voice, with the capital letters obvious in his tone), for the next couple of days, please muddle along as best you can without the "soothing balm of Johnism", except in reruns, and peruse the archives of my previous essays, (go right -->, and then go due south on this page), which have all the tenets of Johnism that you'll need to see you through these next few difficult days.

And remember, there'll be a quiz on this material next week.

Hail Dorothy!

Love and second takes,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Mortimer The Kaoliang Parrot And The LamaBall Finals

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

Way cool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're "wheels up" at dawn tomorrow.

(...the following week...)

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

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

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

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

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

Sounds like a plan, right?

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

No note.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love and parakeets,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

A Six Day Work Week, With Benefits

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love and triple time,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

Yo Hablo El Spanishola Y Something

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

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

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

Or possibly you would like to see this in Dutch:

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

I'm going to my room to sulk.

Love and Berlitz,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.