Ha! Ha! That’s it for the humor this month. We will be reducing the amount of laughs by one-third in future issues of FT. We received an email from the Monterey County Chiropractic review board. It seems there’s been a 200% increase in slipped disks since the first of the year, and 86.5% of those were FT readers. So until you learn to control yourselves and can read responsibly, sorry. Want more laughs? Follow these simple guidelines: Read while sitting. Both hands on the paper. Do not—I repeat, DO NOT—attempt to turn the page with one hand (this is the most dangerous of all). Walking (both freestyle and treadmill) are a close second. Running and feeding the baby are a distant third and fourth, respectively. Once we get the epidemic under control, the laughs will be increased. It’s up to you.
Check out the ad for the April 1st comedy reading in this issue. Hope to see you there.
Don’t Forget The Advertisers!

Happy March, faithful ones. We’re gearing up for our April Fools’ Day reading at Café 316, so check out the ad in this issue for details. Speaking of this issue, we’re proud to present local writer Ted Gargiulo’s “Bedlam in Carmel,” the true story of an author’s first book signing/reading, which took place at the legendary Thunderbird Bookstore. (The Thunderbird closed down after Ted’s reading, although he claims not to have been the reason.) We also feature newcomer Lum Franco’s “Future Episode,” which is sure to strike a chord with many a writer; a Mary Tompsett double feature; and an A-to-Z list of all the things that could possibly kill you, courtesy of Jason Offutt (thanks a lot). You’ll also find an ad by the makers of Stuffacil (“It’s TODAY’S medium-sized purple pill”), an Irish joke or two, and a picture of Lily the Frog. Because we’re NOT just cat people here. Really.

In the beginning was the Word, and Microsoft did not create it.
Our lives are being continually downloaded with words and data that are exponentially increasing in both volume and speed: Facebook, that narcissistic playground for adult children who no longer feel comfortable in public screaming “Mommy, Mommy, look what I can do!” and have three hundred pictures of themselves doing everything imaginable and inform you when they are baking a cake, having their coffee or a BM or thinking about having a BM, MySpace, the textspot for sexpots, Twitter, or how to be a narcissistic from any location on the planet, Farmville (whatever that is, and all I can imagine is Old McDonald), forwarded emails and superstitious chain letters that forewarn my demise if I don’t pass them on, SPAM, celebrity gossip and “which celebrity do you look like?” (and who really gives a BM?) reality TV, iPods, texting, blogs, websites, advertisements, hard-copy junk mail, and GPS systems that help us get to where we forgot we were going. Implosion is imminent.
So let’s throw the hype about 2012 into the mix. There is more information to process, such as astrology, Biblical prophecy, spirit channeling, inactivated DNA strands, solar maximum, earthquakes, black holes, asteroids, and that complicated Mayan calendar that no one can figure out, and if we can’t figure it out, how could an ancient culture have created and understood it? As I peeked at Facebook the other day, I couldn’t believe that even the channels were arguing. These humans who claimed to be spiritual were using their words to control, condemn, and convince, instead of simply being the good example they claimed to be.
And in the interest of 2012, what happens when we get so twisted in the cybernetting of technology and artificial networking and are blasted with a solar flare and the grid goes down? How will we function at all? Is our attachment to Facebook and Twitter creating detachment from ourselves? Is networking not working? Are we distracting our brains and disconnecting our hearts? Are we losing and fragmenting our souls?
They (whoever they are) say that we will need to return to the indigenous ways, change our values, learn to communicate telepathically (because how else will you call your homies or hear the silent screams), use our intuition instead of information, exchange and barter for the things that we need (and aren’t convinced by the media that we should want or have in order to be happy, successful, or cool), learn how to plant gardens again, and actually worship the ground we walk on?
And I have another question. If we have to put on special 3D glasses to watch movies now, what dimension are we living in when we take them off?
Maybe we are the avatars, filled with our own data, encryptions, and memories, created by our souls for life on planet Earth. When we leave our bodies as we pass out of this dimension, will we be looking back on a job well done? Maybe that part of ourselves has not only designed the program, but can change it at any moment in time. Maybe healing isn’t a miracle. Maybe it’s our birthright.
Now I suddenly have the urge to go sit under a tree and meditate, simplify my life, be out in nature, smell and taste things in reality versus virtuality, reboot my heart (or my microprocessor), activate my unused DNA, make friends with a Native American, and start worshipping the ground I walk on, not in the Facebook way, but in the indigenous way.
Maybe my publisher will say that this article isn’t so funny and he might be right. Maybe, in the beginning, the word was love. It’s the reason that I write this column, funny or not.
Maybe it’s time to leave the theater. Don’t forget to remove your 3D glasses.
* * *
Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is experienced, but by no means an expert, on the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of living, dating, and just getting through the day. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Please feel free to contact her directly at: robynjusto@aol.com.

“I think it’s safe to assume that Plato was a young artistic hunk with broad shoulders standing five-foot-three.”

Most words that began free of sexual meaning and evolved in modern times to a sexual connotation, for example, the words “gay” and “slut,” started out innocently enough. Gay used to mean a happy person, and slut meant a woman with soiled clothing, not necessarily one who committed adultery.
It is therefore somewhat fitting and ironic that the word “platonic” had its roots in the homosexual environment of ancient Greece, and like the alternative lifestyle it represents, swung the other way (to a nonsexual meaning).
Platonic today means a nonsexual friendly relationship with a person of the opposite sex.
The word is named after Plato, a genius Greek philosopher mathematician of the fourth century BC. Plato was a student of the equally famous Socrates, a brilliant man whose teachings on ethics laid the basis for Western thought.
Platonic is also derived from the Greek word “platon,” meaning broad-shouldered.
I think it’s safe to assume that Plato was a young artistic hunk with broad shoulders standing five-foot-three. Most people were short back then. This was in the days before vitamins, when you had to exist on untreated water and a limited diet of baklava.
Let’s be open-minded and not homophobic. We all know very artistic and intelligent people who are gay.
Homosexuality in ancient Greece carried no stigma, was no different than heterosexual behavior. After all, there were very few women around. Except for the town’s worked-over harlots, women were often hidden away in tiny rooms or Vestal Virgin convents as virtual slaves, untutored (unlike Plato), seemingly brainless, too busy cooking and scrubbing things and being dirty (sluttish) and worn out to be interested in sex. Only the richest of men could afford women in the home, and this was a world where life was a struggle just to exist into next week.
Sex of any kind was way down the list of priorities.
You grabbed it where you could.
Thus, if you’re Plato, you’re a dreamy-eyed, highly intelligent artistic sophisticate, sitting in a class of only men, where you admire the mind of your teacher. And he, a portly little fellow with a beard, pot belly, and bad breath, admires you because you’re not only smart, you have broad shoulders. You look good in a suit of armor. One thing leads to another.
You go out for a ride together in your chariot. There’s a full moon.
You’re not going to bother to pursue a woman whose only skill is scrubbing out a chamber pot. C’mon!
Western culture developed into world prominence because these guys were interested in each other. I mean, let’s face it. If Plato had been lusting after an ignorant maiden, sure, he would have produced some children, but he would never have learned from his master Socrates, and the Parthenon would not have been built.
Unlike people, there’s only one Parthenon.
Interestingly, it was a Renaissance man in Italy approximately 1,700 years later reading Plato’s writing about Socrates and his interest in young male students, and assuming much, who changed the intent, the meaning of the word platonic, to its present sexless form.
It wasn’t that Plato and Socrates were gay lovers that offended him. It was rather the notion advanced by the church at that time that pleasure of any kind was wrong.
In other words, it was okay for Plato to be smart and for people to learn from him. After all, we needed his teachings to climb out of the Dark Ages when we were all a bunch of morons who couldn’t even figure out how to use a knife and spoon. But it was not okay for Plato and Socrates to fool around during break-time from school.
This fourteenth-century word-meaning change was the first example of the “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” policy toward gays of the kind currently used by our military.
History repeats itself.
Copyright 2010 Sammonsays

“Wouldn’t it be a hoot, I thought, if everyone within the sound of my voice had dropped what they were doing to listen to me read?”

On Saturday, December 11th, 2004, I gave my very first book reading/signing at the Thunderbird Bookstore in Carmel, California. I tell you, there has never been, nor will there ever be, a literary event like the one that took place that day.
I barely escaped with my life. Mobs of adoring fans crashed through the police barricades and nearly trampled me in their wild, desperate lunge for the mere handful of books I had brought with me. “The people will be satisfied!” they cried in a single voice. They chanted, they prayed, they set fire to trashcans, they slashed tires and smashed windows and looted neighboring stores. My wife and I dove under one of the tables for cover. “I told you we needed more copies!” I said to her.
Fistfights broke out among the clientele and spilled into the rest of the mall. Fans toppled book displays as they wrestled one another for the few remaining copies of my book, “He In Me.” A teenage girl crawled under the table where we were hiding. She ripped off my shirt and tried to get me to autograph it. Fortunately, Jann interceded and popped the broad in the snout, which gave me enough time to duck into the men’s room while the two of them grappled under the table. Finally, the National Guard was called in to restore order.
Okay, so that wasn’t exactly how things went that day. Let me give you the real scoop.
First off, for those of you not from this area, I should explain that the Thunderbird was one of the largest and most beloved bookstores on the Monterey Peninsula, and famous for hosting a number of big deal-ish literary events. I couldn’t think of a more perfect place to stage my literary debut. Sadly, the store went out of business soon after… but I assure you, that was NOT my fault!
Reviews of my book and announcements of the reading had appeared in publications from here to Santa Cruz, including the Thunderbird’s own website and newsletter. I’d posted flyers in the local libraries, sent out invitations to the press, contacted friends… did everything I could do to generate public interest on a budget of nothing. People Jann and I had spoken to promised they’d be there, and said they knew of others who were also interested in attending. By the time the big day rolled around, I was ready to take on the world.
Originally, my reading was scheduled for the Community Room, which contains a modest-sized lecture hall with podium in a building across from the bookstore proper. Several days before the event, the store manager decided I might do better if she placed me inside the store itself, in the reading corner. It was less formal, she said, and probably would attract more people from within the store. How neat! I imagined myself flanked by attentive listeners, shoppers pausing from their chores to drink in my golden prose. Like an old-fashioned coffee house! Made me feel I was part of a great literary tradition. I thought it fair to warn the manager, though, that the selection I’d planned to read might get a little loud and dramatic. I didn’t want to annoy or alarm anybody. “No problem,” she said. I trusted her.
Mind you, I didn’t have any unrealistic expectations about the success of my book, which I myself have described as “a mild thriller, a social satire, a domestic Moby Dick.” I understood all about the uphill battle a first-time author faces, especially when his publisher handles virtually none of the promotion. I wasn’t anticipating a stampede. Still, I’m embarrassed to admit I was nervous I wouldn’t have enough copies to meet the demand. In a literate community like Monterey-Carmel, which takes pride in its local talent, twenty-four copies didn’t seem like an outlandish quantity to have on hand. If I had sold half that number, I’d have been disappointed, yes, though hardly ungrateful. Even six, I’d have considered a respectable, if somewhat lackluster, response. Only three, I’d have figured that was three more converts than I had on December 10th.
Anyway, before I tell you who DIDN’T show, let me tell you who did. First off, my dad, Maestro Ted Sr., came to hear me read. Me! I can’t tell you how important that made me feel. And I have his wife to thank for bringing him, because there’s no way he’d have made it on his own. My brother, Terrence, was also there. Both he and my dad had already read my book and were immensely enthusiastic about it. Seated directly in front were my stepdaughter, Shannon, and her husband, Reggie. And of course, I had my wife, Jann, right by my side. All the important people in my life were there to support me. As it turned out, when one o’clock rolled around, they were the ONLY people present for the reading.
I tried dawdling a few extra minutes to give late arrivals time to find their way. Around 1:10, I began with an informal intro, hoping the sound of my voice would attract a few last-minute stragglers from within the store. I let the preamble drag on longer than I should have. Finally, I had to begin.
I gave the reading my best shot. Like the actor of old, I immersed myself in the drama and tried to forget about who was or wasn’t present. I was marginally aware of customers moseying about the store, voices in the background, the chi-chang of the cash register. None of that bothered me. Those summer nights performing in Brooklyn, “Under the Stars,” had been my boot camp. Barking dogs, planes flying overhead, falling sets, people walking across the stage to find their seats, the unruly kid wailing from the house across the way, a sudden downpour—there was nothing I couldn’t work around.
About ten minutes into the reading, when the drama was really beginning to percolate, I did notice how quiet the world around me had become. It seemed as though all activity had ceased. Wouldn’t it be a hoot, I thought, if everyone within the sound of my voice had dropped what they were doing to listen to me read?
On stage, I never would have acknowledged the audience. This being an informal reading, however, I figured it was okay to look away from the page every so often and glance around the room. So I raised my head, expecting to see a cluster of onlookers gathered around me, gaping, spellbound, breathless with amazement. Instead, I saw… NOBODY! Nobody, that is, but the same handful of people I started out with. Seems I had cleared the entire store.
The air began hissing out of my balloon so fast, I was almost afraid someone would hear it. Still, if the theater taught me anything, it’s that an actor gives his all, even if he’s playing to only one person. In this instance, that one person might as well have been my dad. So I forged ahead, undaunted, and brought the piece to a stirring finale.
Needless to say, there was no shortage of books that day. I did get to sign one, though. Good old Terrence had brought his copy from home. Today was the first time this whiz kid (only half my age) got to see his big bro in action. He was clearly enamored with my reading (which meant a lot, coming from him), and encouraged me to record an audio version of my book to sell on Amazon. Hm!
Imagine how much more impressed my dad, the maestro, must have been. He’d never had the pleasure of watching me perform while I was theatrically active—never got to see me chew the scenery, much less a bookstore. He was blown away. He gave me that serious, thoughtful nod he usually reserved for great composers and musical performers, and pronounced my reading “Good! Very good!” He told me I “still had the stuff” after all those years I was away from the stage… wished he could see me in a play someday. I tell you, that endorsement carried more weight than all the critical accolades I could hope to receive in my lifetime.
Shannon and Reggie also enjoyed themselves, what with Shannon providing the most audible giggles through the funny parts. As for my dad’s wife, it was hard to tell from her demeanor what she was feeling. From what I knew about her tastes, I’d have guessed she wasn’t too thrilled with the material, and cared even less for my over-the-top presentation. Jann later told me the woman had been staring at her the whole time I was reading. (Probably wondering: Are you going to just sit there and allow that insane husband of yours to go on like that? Didn’t you lecture him about bookstore protocol?) I hope the experience wasn’t too painful for her. It just makes me appreciate her all the more for bringing my dad to an event she wouldn’t have attended herself.
Jann and I both agreed, in retrospect, that the selection I had chosen, and the accompanying histrionics, were inappropriate for that particular venue. It would have been different had I written a book about basket weaving, or the history of baby food. But my material was, after all, highly emotional, dramatic. I wanted to razzle-dazzle my listeners and bring the story to life, not scare them away. Maybe I should have stuck with the lecture hall.
Another adverse factor, according to Jann, was the Christmas season. Here’s another example of… what? Impaired judgment? My spectacularly lousy timing? I figured the Barnyard in Carmel would be bustling with holiday shoppers, that the bookstore itself would be overrun with readers buying gifts for fellow readers. By all rights, drawing a crowd on a Saturday afternoon, two weeks prior to the Big C, should have been a breeze. Like catching flies in a stable.
Then again, Jann was correct in pointing out that Christmas was the worst possible time in which to unveil a depressing story of power, madness, and other such twisted, un-yule-ish sentiments. “A Teddy Bear’s Christmas,” or “Winky’s Wah-Wah,” might have made a better selection. I’ll admit the title, “He In Me,” can be confusing to people. It doesn’t mix with their visions of sugar plums. It doesn’t jingle. You can’t dance to it.
Obviously, I didn’t CHOOSE this time of year to debut my book. At this stage in my career(?), I have to accept whatever time or venue is offered. Ironic, isn’t it! It took me 17 years to bring this baby into the literary world, and I couldn’t get 17 people to devote 17 minutes of their time to hear me read it. Figures, my “world premiere” reading had to fall smack in the middle of freakin’ Christmas! Well, excuse me, folks. Maybe I should burrow back into the ground and poke my head up in a different point in time.
I’ll admit, I was disappointed at the poor turnout. But not discouraged. One isolated event (or non-event) is hardly a barometer by which to measure one’s success. There are so many channels to explore, contacts I need to make, books I have yet to publish. But that, my friends, is a whole other story.
The most positive thing I can say about that Saturday in December is that my family was there for me. It was especially important to me that my dad came to see me. I know he came because he wanted to, not because he felt obligated. (He had to climb a number of steps to get to the Thunderbird—not an easy feat for a man of 89.) The man got to see me at my best… finally got to know the person behind the son. I may not have made much of an impact on the world that day. But I did make an impact on my dad. And that’s what I’ll be taking with me, long after the petty disappointments have faded from memory.
* * *
Ted Gargiulo’s stories and essays have appeared in The San Jose Mercury News, The Monterey County Herald, Wilde Times, The Gamut, and The Fringe. Born in New York City, the former stage actor and prize-winning author now lives with his wife in Seaside, California. Ted is currently working on a collection of short stories. He In Me, available from PublishAmerica, is his first published novel. Foolish readers can visit Ted’s website, www.tedsway.com, to find out more about this foolish novel, along with the crazy fool who authored it.

“I suddenly became the new owner of two huge machines that looked like space capsules, complete with 747 consoles. A lot had changed at Whirlpool in twenty-five years.”

If prior to purchasing my new washing machine I had read the operating instructions, I would have gone back to beating my clothes on the rocks at a nearby stream.
Our small old Whirlpool washer-dryer combo finally died after twenty-five years of faithful service, first to the original owner of the condo, and then many years later to me. However, in the past three years, only spit and chewing gum along with the expertise of our brilliant mechanic, Eric, had held it together. Sadly, Eric abandoned us for veterinary school. Imagine that. Working on decrepit laundry machines, or helping small furry animals? No amount of bribes could keep him from leaving us.
Finally, when the oil slick under the washer became too vast to ignore, I dropped by our local appliance store just in time to learn that if I purchased a new Whirlpool set RIGHT NOW, I would qualify for $300 worth of rebates. Well, that seemed like a no-brainer, so I whipped out my credit card and suddenly became the new owner of two huge machines that looked like space capsules, complete with 747 consoles. A lot had changed at Whirlpool in twenty-five years.
Uncharacteristically, I decided that before I approached these scary-looking behemoths I had better read the instruction manual so I wouldn’t accidentally launch my laundry to the moon.
Whoa, Nellie. Before I press one damn button, I realize that I ought to finish up my living trust.
On the first page in the manual, under the title of “Washer Safety,” there are two boxes of text. One headline says “DANGER,” the other, “WARNING” (in case you weren’t paying attention the first time). The DANGER box says: “You can be killed or seriously injured if you don’t immediately follow instructions.” The WARNING box says: “You can be killed or seriously injured if you don’t follow instructions.”
Whirlpool must have had their butts handed to them in court for leaving off the word “immediately” in earlier versions of their instructions. Some idiot had probably ignored the warning that says, “Do not put gasoline-soaked rags in the dryer—THIS MIGHT KILL YOU!—so they got themselves all lawyered up. Perhaps I should retain an attorney to interpret the instructions for me. There probably already exists an ABA specialty known as “Laundry for Idiots.”
Anyway, I pretty much ignored all that and proceeded to “Safety Instructions,” where I discovered in another WARNING box the statement: “Do not use an extension cord. Failure to follow these instructions can result in death, fire, or electrical shock.” Ooops. Our old machine was a stackable unit with one 220 outlet. Now, we have two separate units. The washer requires a 110 outlet, which we do not have in our laundry area. No problem, the installer says, just drill a hole in the wall between the laundry room and the kitchen and run an extension cord. Oh, really?
I read on. Another WARNING box: “No washer can completely remove oil. Do not dry anything that has EVER had any type of oil on it (including cooking oils.) Doing so can result in death, explosion, or fire.” I realize that this is a good excuse NOT to cook, but I must say that by now, I’m getting cheesed off. Electrocution! Death! Destruction! Can famine, locusts, and the Plague be far behind?
Better I should haul my clothes back to the creek.
* * *
Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

Thank you, Susan, for presenting me with this wonderful trophy on behalf of Book and Cranny. You have no idea how thrilled I am to receive the Axegrinder Award for Writers. This recognition is an inconceivable honor.
For many of you, my story could very well be your story. Rising from the slush pile of anonymity to self-publish—dispensing all of 70 copies of Wishes Were, my fictional memoir, currently categorized as creative nonfiction, with minimal duress and only occasional bodily injury to family, friends, and writing cohorts—I broke through beginner’s block to land squarely in the midlist with my gripping novel of raunchy rural life, Days of Whine and Prose, only to catapult to the top of the Sun Pacific Best Ten Books list with my tell-all, Recollections of an Amnesiac. The trajectory has been long, lopsided, and lucky.
You, too, may one day stand before a group of your peers to not only receive, but also give due. So, now, let me—a simple storyteller named Penny Pinzur Proz—acknowledge major contributors to my unlikely ascent to fortuitous fame. With pleasure and tongue in cheek, I present the following awards to those instrumental few who fueled my rise in the written-word world.
To Fanny Down, I present the Janus Prize. An author and teacher who, through example, taught me how to identify true writers and true friends. Clear and succinct as only Fanny can be, she advised that our continued professional and personal relationship was predicated upon my purchase of her latest, but first print-on-demand, novel via Abracadabra. Ever generous with practical advice, Fanny cautioned me to change the names to avoid true embarrassment, a life lesson she learned at her first book signing when her cousin, known as Fat Kathy behind her back and in the book, confronted Fanny by saying, “Go on, dedicate it to Fat Kathy.”
For editing insight, I award the Almighty Pen, along with a lifetime supply of Blood Red and Envy Green ink, to Lottie Gaul. Drawing from her own history of literary rejection, Lottie liberally lined out, wrote in, and duly directed—with delicacy—what needed to change for my work to meet her singular standards. She, too, not only prepared me for future professional editorial services, but also taught a life lesson: Thick skins wind up on the bestsellers list, thin ones land in the remainders heap.
Were it not for an agent, I would still be wallowing in slush. David Zellnik of the famed Zellnik Agency badgered me to send the first 100 manuscript pages, which arrived while he was packing up his office. Subsequently, I badgered him repeatedly for an update on the status of my submission. Silence was his reply. A flash of insight led me to conclude my novel was lost in transport. Were it not for David, my Whine and Prose would still be moldering in a box gone missing. The lesson learned? Do it right, do it yourself. To David Zellnik, literary agent without parallel, I grant the Literal Lethe Award.
To Claudine Incline Dawgett I give the Author as Devil Advocate Award! Because of her, my writing persona bears three rather than the traditional two names. A bellwether of market trend, Claudine not only shared her expertise as midlist maven, but also cued me on the prerogatives of published authors, particularly those of a major house. A life lesson she promulgated was to arbitrarily jack up the cost of fine-tuning a manuscript midway through the project. Another was to email a communal critique to collaborators of a short-story collection rather than provide private and individual assessments, thereby subjecting each writer to peer review as well as expert evaluation in one fell-to-hell swoop.
All that remains is to name the recipient of the most coveted award of all. As you may recall, I was granted this most prestigious prize last year. In consultation with Susan and with the concurrence of the Book and Cranny staff and sundry supporters, I will retain the Vial of Vitriol Award and maintain the right to name a successor once a writer surfaces who surpasses my level of venom.
Thank you, one and all, and remember to keep the fellowship of the word alive.

I had noticed a growing angst within, and felt the need of a therapist. But alas, and to no great surprise, my insurance did not cover psychotherapy. As I waded through the coverage limitations, I came to the conclusion that my health insurance covered only boils, ringworm, hangnails, and psoriasis—and only if they weren’t pre-existing conditions. All for only $350 a month. Wow, what a bargain.
I had a lot of things inside of me that I needed to set free—to get them off my chest so to speak. I’m not much of a church-goer, so going to a strange minister or priest didn’t feel right. I could have probably gone to a bar and poured out my troubles to a bartender, but every bartender in town is on a first-name basis with me. Probably half have called cabs for me. I needed to talk to someone who wouldn’t betray me by telling others the abysmal inner workings of my dysfunctional, toxic, fear-ridden mind.
As I am sure it was for Edison, Tesla, and Einstein, it came to me in a flash: Rex! Yes! It coalesced in a magic dance in my mind’s eye. Father Rex. That’s it! Father Rex!
I would have to make a confessional and of course prepare a communion. For the confessional, I put two beer kegs (sadly, empty) on the kitchen table about two feet apart. Then I put a two-by-four across them and draped Kimmie the CPA’s Amish see-through dress she left here the night she was hauled away in handcuffs. (The police’s, not mine.)
The communion would be crackers and, of course, red jug wine. You can’t eat just dry crackers, so I got out the spray can of Cheese Whiz. To make it official, I took off Rex’s collar, wrapped toilet paper around it, and put it back on. Indeed. Father Rex with his black fur and white collar could have meandered through the Vatican, unnoticed.
Rex, having his collar monkied with, felt trouble brewing as I sat him up on a kitchen chair. “Rex, I’m going to make a confession to you. Several. Sit here and I’m going into the jerry-rigged confessional and spill my guts. Oh, and we’re having communion, so you get oyster crackers with Cheese Whiz, and I’m having wine, too, just to make it look churchy.” Rex wagged his tail. The CD of the Sing-along Gregorian Chants wasn’t in its jewel case, so I put on The Best of ABBA instead. I sat down across from him and looked at him through Kimmie’s see-through dress. We were in business.
“Father Rex, I have sinned.” Rex wagged his tail and I passed a cracker and cheese to him through the dress. “In kindergarten, I used to look up girls’ dresses when we took naps.” Again a wag of his tail and I slid a cheese and cracker to him.
“In 1973 I lied to a census worker. I told him 873 people lived in the house with me.” A wag and a cracker. I loaded up a saltine with Cheese Whiz for me and took a slug of wine, no, two slugs of wine from the jug.
“In 1993 I drove naked through downtown Monterey at 3 a.m. With no seat belt. Alcohol was involved.” A wag from Rex in exchange for an oyster cracker laden with Cheese Whiz.
“Once I had a house full of guests and farted and I blamed it on you.” Rex didn’t wag. “Forgive me, Father.” He reluctantly wagged and I gave him his treat. Pavlov would have been proud.
“Once I told a woman I loved her just to have sex with her.” Rex didn’t wag his tail. “Forgive me, Father.” He still didn’t wag his tail. “What? It’s not a sin to do that?” No wag. “Oh, WOW, that’s fantastic. Here, have an extra cracker on me, buddy. Way to go, PADRE!” I was going to high-five him, but felt it may not be appropriate. I winked at him and he wagged his tail like a Geiger counter at Chernobyl.
“In 2000 I started claiming you as dependant on my taxes. You are dependant on me, you know.” A wag and a cracker. I took three big gulps of the sacramental wine.
“At Christmas, I put Monopoly money in the Santa’s charity boxes. Some days I don’t change my underwear. I lift up high the hose before I start pumping at the gas station, just to get a little more free gas. I have an unpaid Bakersfield parking ticket from 1979.” It was all coming out. I gulped more wine.
“Once I faked an orgasm. I was alone, so maybe that’s not a sin.” Rex stared at me through the gauzy dress. I figured I better not tell him about the . . . well, I probably shouldn’t discuss it here, either.
“Once I told the Denny’s waitress I was 55 just to get a seniors discount. I was only 54. And a half.” I passed Rex his cracker and put a straw in the jug of wine and started slurpin’.
“Sometimes I buy you discount dog food just so I can have more money for beer . . .” Rex put his paws up on the table and growled. “Forgive me, Father . . . ?” He lunged at me with bared fangs. Church was over. I had to run out to the garage to save myself and stayed there for three and a half hours until the Padre cooled down.
Some things, I guess, are unforgivable.
* * *
Tom and / or Rex can be reached at burns100@earthlink.net.

“Singer Isaac Hayes died in 2008 while exercising on a treadmill. I heard the news of his death on CNN while I was at the gym exercising on a treadmill.”

The universe is trying to kill us. Pollution, careless drivers, axe-wielding maniacs? Those are nothing compared to what’s in our gardens.
Botanists recently discovered that potatoes and tomatoes are among a growing category of carnivorous plants. Carnivorous plants? Pitcher plants and Venus flytraps eat the bad guys in old jungle movies, but now carnivorous plants are in kitchens across the world and they’re looking at our kids.
“Widely recognized carnivorous plants number some 650 and we estimate that another 325 or so are probable additions—so an increase of about 50 percent,” Dr. Mike Fay told the British newspaper “The Independent.”
Plants in our dangerous gardens catch insects in their hairy stems and absorb their nutrients.
Oh, great, if potatoes, tomatoes, and 973 other plants can do us in, what else do we have to worry about?
Things that kill you:
A: American alligators killed 12 people from 2001-2007. I’ve eaten alligator; I don’t regret it.
B: Batman, but only if you really, really deserve it.
C: Coconuts. Falling coconuts kill 150 people each year. Seriously. I did not make that up.
D: Driving. Anywhere from 39,250 to 47,087 people were killed on American highways each year between 1982 and 2004.
E: Exercise. Singer Isaac Hayes died in 2008 while exercising on a treadmill. I heard the news of his death on CNN while I was at the gym exercising on a treadmill.
F: Frankenstein’s monster. So, if vacationing in German forests, remember, reanimated corpses are grumpy.
G: Grizzly Bears. In 2003, a male grizzly bear mauled and killed a self-styled grizzly expert in Alaska. In 2005, a female grizzly bear attacked, killed, and ate two campers in Alaska. The lesson? Don’t go to places where a grizzly bear may eat you—like Alaska.
H: Hippos kill more people in Africa than do lions, crocodiles, and water buffalo combined. Better stay out of Africa, too.
I: Icebergs. The Titanic not only killed 1,517 people, the movie took three hours of my life.
J: Jason Voorhees killed more than 100 people since Friday the 13th Part II came out in 1981 and still teenagers keep wandering off alone in the dark to have sex.
K: Klingons. “yIlop. wa’leS chaq maHegh.” (“Celebrate. Tomorrow we may die.”)
L: Lightning kills an average of 58 people each year.
M: Martians. In Mars Attacks, martian invaders killed Michael J. Fox. In War of the Worlds, they tried to take over the earth. In Red Planet, space bugs tried to eat us. And that damned Face on Mars just keeps staring at me. I don’t trust it.
N: Ninjas. Don’t piss off—or loan money to—a ninja.
O: Oceans. An average of 36 people drown each year—just off the shores of Hawaii, not that any of them had been drinking. Worldwide, 15 people are eaten by sharks.
P: Pigs. Not only will pork raise your cholesterol, pigs are known to kill and eat children and very slow farmers.
Q: Quicksand.
R: Rambo. Rambo killed 438 people throughout four movies.
S: Stupidity. If it weren’t for stupid people, there’d be no reason to watch the evening news.
T: The Terminator. “It can’t be bargained with. It doesn’t feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead.”
U: Unicycles. Just look at them.
V: Vampires. Of course, you won’t stay dead for long.
W: Wookies: “Droids don’t pull people’s arms out of their sockets when they lose. Wookiees are known to do that.” Wookies are not cuddly.
X: XXX. Vin Diesel killed seven people in that movie. Depression from spending hard-earned money to watch XXX killed an estimated 4.2 million viewers.
Y: Yellow fever.
Z: Zod: But only if you: 1) get in his way, 2) live on the planet Krypton.
With all this hanging over our heads, now we have to worry about vegetables. Just don’t go to sleep in a garden, near quicksand, in bear country or on Krypton, and you might survive the night.
* * *
You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.

“Haggling (as dad used to call it) is apparently half the fun. Seeing if you can get a stranger to accept even less money for the junk he doesn’t want anymore is supposedly quite a challenge.”

“Quick, turn right here!” my wife shouted unexpectedly on our way home from church last Sunday.
“Where?” I replied, trying my best to comply with her ever-so-polite request.
“Right there,” she shouted, grabbing the steering wheel herself to assist me.
“Thanks for the help,” I said sarcastically. “You almost took out two mailboxes and a stop sign. There are laws against that kind of thing, you know. Plus, the kids are in the car too. Have you completely lost your mind?”
“Stop overreacting. There was nobody coming in the other lane. And besides, we merely grazed the side of that fence. You can be so dramatic sometimes. Really. Anyway, we simply had to make that turn. Didn’t you see the sign?”
“Nope. Guess I missed it paying attention to oncoming traffic,” I said, still a little rattled at her passenger-seat driving.
As I regained my composure, I realized what my dear, sweet wife was talking about. Coming up on our left-hand side was another one. The words “GARAGE SALE TODAY” were hand-written in black magic marker on a piece of white poster board. I should have known. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I realized our swerving vehicle had taken out the sign on the corner.
“Nice job, hon,” I said (again with heavy sarcasm). “You took out their nice homemade sign with your craziness.”
“Oh, relax,” Shannon said. “We’ll pick it up on the way back. And this will help us avoid some of the competition. At least for this yard sale.”
The competition my wife spoke of was the other people attending the sale. Her fear, of course, was that they would either beat her to the “good stuff” or eliminate her ability to barter. If another person wants the same item you do, she reasoned, the owner would be unlikely to come off their price. In the worst-case scenario, it may even turn into a bidding war. This is more like an auction and, as my wife is quick to point out, the odds shift heavily toward the “house.”
And “haggling” (as dad used to call it) is apparently half the fun. Seeing if you can get a stranger to accept even less money for the junk he doesn’t want anymore is supposedly quite a challenge. Often, you can shave at least a dollar or more off your day’s booty with even a modest effort to wheel and deal. It’s very rewarding.
“You sure know an awful lot about garage sale-ing” (perfectly acceptable slang) I said, only half joking.
Truth be told, she often comes home from such escapades with a whole box full of these valuable treasures. DVDs, toys for the kids, board games, and anything else you could imagine. I must admit, she did find some pretty cool stuff at those darn things. And it’s all so cheap. But it just isn’t my cup of tea.
My one and only attempt at bargain hunting came on the way home from my brother’s house early one Saturday afternoon. Noticing a nice, brightly colored sign in an affluent neighborhood, I decided to try my luck. It was awful. My fatal flaw, as my wife later pointed out, was that I arrived way too late to find anything worthwhile. All the best stuff is usually gone by nine o’clock or so. Apparently, if you want to score a hardly used weight bench for under thirty bucks, you have to get up pretty early in the morning. Deals like that simply don’t make it past lunchtime.
“Everyone knows that,” my wife stated flatly.
Everyone, that is, except me. I had no idea the extreme these people will go to to get a good deal. For all I knew, my wife enjoyed getting up at five in the morning every weekend. I never dreamed this so-called competition really does exist. But they do. And they are relentless in their hunt for value. Some are even known to camp out all night at the bigger “neighborhood” garage sales in hopes of being the first to arrive. I guess it’s true what they say: one man’s junk truly is another man’s treasure. I think from now on I’ll leave this area to my wife’s unquestionable expertise. I just hope she leaves the driving to me.
* * *
“Got a Minute?”
An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.
Visit www.brentbasham.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)

Having never kept an actual journal, Mollen writes these columns in retrospect. For each column, he chooses a different day in his lifetime, and writes about it as though it were today. A particular entry may be about a day last week, or Halloween 1980, or the day he was born. Some of you may be asking, “But how would he have been able to write a journal entry on the day he was born?” To you, Mollen says: “Lighten up. It’s a humor column.”

Ask Your Doctor About Stuffacil!
Journal entry: March 16, 2007 (age 37)

Your regular columnist has leased this space to the makers of a revolutionary new prescription drug, so they can tell you why you should take a lot of it.
Stuffacil. It’s TODAY’S medium-sized purple pill. Ask your doctor if Stuffacil is right for you!
Consult your doctor before illegally obtaining Stuffacil and selling it to your friends.
Stuffacil is bad for the arms.
Do not take Stuffacil if you are pregnant, likely to become pregnant, afraid of pregnant people, or chubby.
Do not take Stuffacil before or after meals, as it may make you permanently allergic to most food products, especially those with the word “gummi” in them.
Stuffacil is not recommended for persons who have a history of being a child.
This product may cause your torso to temporarily expand to eight times its normal size.
You may find that visual art such as sculpture or macramé is frighteningly intense while taking this medication.
Stuffacil will make you much more able to operate heavy machinery, but don’t.
Wash Stuffacil down with a refreshing Stuffle fruit drink.
Water will make Stuffacil angry. You wouldn’t like Stuffacil when it’s angry.
Stuffacil is prohibited for children under the age of 18, for the purpose of expanding our market share among children under the age of 18.
The Medicare discount card will make Stuffacil more expensive.
Evil Canadians should not be expected to manufacture anything nearly as cool as Stuffacil.
Don’t be afraid to ask your doctor about our product. Last week, we expensed five nights of heavy drinking for your doctor at Hooters, and he/she seemed to be eager to write a bunch of prescriptions as soon as possible.
Stuffacil is not a suppository, but what the heck.
We sent free samples of Stuffacil to Hillary Duff and football legend Ed “Too Tall” Jones, and although they have not endorsed Stuffacil, we’ll bet you anything they liked it a lot.
Paranoia is not a common side effect, but you may notice an increase in the number of people who look at you as though your fly is open.
A small group of sample subjects found that Stuffacil caused excessive sweating, trenchmouth, the gout, spontaneous combustion, fear of board games, numbness of the face and body, foot cramps, and gravy cravings. Results were completely different and more damaging than placebo, although one guy’s tummy didn’t feel too good after placebo.
Don’t look at Stuffacil like that.
Stuffacil likes your brother/sister better than you.
If you feel better after taking Stuffacil, it is only so that you may live to serve Stuffacil’s Dark Master.
Stuffacil will try again and again to kill you.
The people in our commercials who are shown taking Stuffacil and then frolicking with puppy dogs in fragrant meadows are all dead now.
Consult your doctor if you do not want to be dead.
* * *
Tim Mollen is a syndicated humor columnist. He is also fond of jam. You can contact him or read more of his work at www.timmollen.com.

“I follow a variation of Teddy Roosevelt’s advice: I walk very softly most of the time, but I carry a big baseball bat-shaped stick. Not that I would ever take anyone out with it.”

I tend to cling to a misguided belief that I can rescue people. I think that I, being very swift of foot but very slight of common sense, can just swoop down upon people in need and scoop them up in my velvet talons.
In reality, I’m incapable of saving even myself. Talons of steel couldn’t hold my distracted and flighty energy in their grip.
I follow a variation of Teddy Roosevelt’s advice: I walk very softly most of the time, but I carry a big baseball bat-shaped stick. Not that I would ever take anyone out with it. I’m so nonviolent that I probably wouldn’t defend even my own children if someone were to put a gun to their heads. If someone put a gun to mine, I’d rather die knowing I’d stuck to my nonviolence ethic to the very end. (I admit, however, I’d experience great remorse if my children were to succumb to my pacifistic principles.)
When caring for others, walking softly comes naturally. When caring for myself, I tread more heavily, plodding along life’s path with my ball and chain attached. I don’t anger easily, and cower among people who wield big sticks.
My own big stick I keep padlocked inside a shed whose lock combination I can never remember, except when I need it before heading to the ballpark to see the Giants whoop the Dodgers, or for psychological support before trading my car for a dozen baseballs autographed by the likes of Babe Ruth, Ted Williams, Jackie Robinson, and Lou Gehrig. Then that stick seems to whip out of my shed like a bullet. I’ve never hit anyone with it, but I do wave it around a lot.
I realize I’m a little over-involved in baseball, for someone who can’t catch an infield fly except with her forehead or eye socket, and has a batting average recently estimated at .035. But hey, that’s an improvement over the target practice percentage I achieved in the Army, when I was forced to qualify on a 9-millimeter semi-automatic big stick—the only time I’ve ever held a gun.
I was supposed to hit at least 65 out of 100 shots on the target. I hit only three, and two of them didn’t technically make it within the red zone that demarcates an unsettling silhouette of a human head and torso. The supervising sergeant gave me a passing score, despite the fact that I scored only three percent. He was unnerved by my tremulous and spastic weapon handling, and worried when his lower-ranking enlisted staff scattered when I pulled the trigger.
Even the two-star general who accompanied me to the range after finding out I’d avoided the mandatory annual 9mm qualification throughout my entire twelve-year Army career agreed to pass me anyway. He advised that I ought never, ever hold a gun again. It makes no difference how large a gun may be—it will never be my “Big Stick.”
I may be equally inept with a bat as I am with a gun, but my bat is only one of two Big Sticks I ever want to get my hands around. But it’s extremely doubtful I’ll walk anywhere close to softly when I take it to the ball park and wave it around for my SF Giants.

“Seems my cleavage hitched a ride with other body parts and migrated south. So much for maintaining property values.”

I dedicate this article to the memory of the beloved Disney character, Tinkerbelle, who died this summer after flailing for days on a gummy fly strip. Tink is survived by her somewhat less diminutive sister, Tankerbelle.
Speaking of faeries, I’d planned to dress as one at a recent Renaissance Faire. But the mosquitoes were so brutal, I didn’t want to spray my newly winged body with OFF and then spend the whole day repelling myself.
Last year I rented a queen costume with yards of taffeta billowing over an eight-foot-wide hoop skirt. Oh, so elegant was I. And then some nice young firemen came with axes and freed me from the porta-potty. So, this time I dressed as Joan of Arc. Inspirational. Dignified. Until my crocheted “body armor” of soda can pull-tabs and silver yarn caught on my authentic elk boots, and (oops!!) unraveled. Those damned antlers.
Ever been to a Renaissance Faire? The cleavage quotient soars off the charts. I don’t begrudge the lassies who flaunt their chestitude, but I sure miss mine. The once deep valley of my mammenhanced youth has morphed over time into an empty lot with drifting berms of sand. Seems my cleavage hitched a ride with other body parts and migrated south. So much for maintaining property values.
When I was “twenty-something” just a few tiny decades ago, my zealous commitment to feminist ideology consisted of sometimes going bra-less. (I am nothing if not superficial.) Back then, an advice columnist wrote that if you could snug a pencil under your busomness, you HAD to wear a bra. Why is it I never remember my online account passwords, but easily cough up this ancient crap?? Anyway, I failed the pencil test, despite private tutoring. Maybe I shoulda tried a No. 4 Ticonderoga….
Gravity aids this sneaky mammigration. That’s okay. Given our climate-change troubles, I’m relieved the laws of physics still rock. But if body parts keep wandering, eventually both units of my pectoral campsite will be entirely vacated, leaving me a clueless landlady with no tenants.
When did this start? I suspect my bifurcated adipose skipped town while I was inspecting hundreds of new menopausal moles and setting up a memorial fund for my skin tone. My cleavage remains at large, even though I ran the rascal’s photo on milk cartons. Yes, I know. Ironic. I pray that it’s safe and happy, perhaps cruising the scene somewhere in a double-breasted suit.
Of course, if you or I decide to retire elsewhere, moving might be easier if our fleshly valuables did relocate separately at their own pace, rather than wait for us to shlepp ourselves en masse. Golly, I’ll be thrilled if all of me reunites in a warm state! One that licenses old folks to drive without fussing over silly details like vision exams and road tests.
We hear about preventing falls with exercise to preserve our sense of balance. Not to worry. Mammigration is making women’s bodies safer than ever. It’s true! The descending breastiferous tissue acts as a counterweight for the ballast accumulating on our back porches. The downside, so to speak, is that with bodies so misshapen, falling may be the only exercise we can do.
So, just when I’d gotten used to the mammigration thing, I attended the Renaissance cleavage circus, and reawakened my sense of dismay. The event teemed with brocaded ladies, serving wenches, and the busty pirate babes I call “Captain Hookers.” They strutted around in mammiful corsets strained near to bursting with glandular phenomena that resembled rabid balloon animals.
Dear lords and ladies, NOBODY’S breastitude can be that high! How do those women breathe?? Was this a cleverly run mammoScam? I think not! Forsooth, I say we know real derma-firma when we see it! Egad, what could cause such acute busomation?? The logical answer…and let’s hope it’s covered under healthcare reform…
Collarbone goiters.
Copyright © 2010 by Mary Tompsett
* * *
Mary Tompsett is a self-syndicated humorist who lives with her dog and cats on the far east side of Santa Cruz (okay, Racine, Wisconsin). Her horse left the family for a more stable environment. Read more at www.marytompsett.com.

“With our new Baked Alaska package, we’ll gladly toast you crispy, sweep you into an ice cream cone, and then freeze your sorry ash.”

“Ode to an Amaryllis”
What a thrill to see your first leaf,
and your blooms will soon be a treat.
But this phase in between?
Budded stalk, you’re obscene!
Can I get you some boxers or briefs??

Midwesterners aren’t as backwards as some of the “coastal elite” may think. No, by cracky, we have our BlackBerries, same as elsewhere. Pears and melons, too. But I’ll admit, a stray clump of hay can wreak havoc in our rotary phones.
The Midwest even has its own cryonics facilities. Also known as cryogenics, the process involves freezing a dead body until future technology can restore it to life. Holy jumper cables, we’ve come a long way! Gone are the old days when we stored Uncle Larry in a jumbo Tupperware filled with frozen corn. Some FAQs now, for our curious readers.
“What happens at death?” Hey, we never use negative terms like DIE and DEATH! Instead, we say the body enters a state of apparent de-animation. This sounds way perkier, but don’t expect the stiff to keep holding up its end of the conversation. Of course, on a cellular level all hell is breaking loose, with entire neighborhoods heading for the dumpster. So, it’s important to quickly chill and ship the de-animated lump to a cryogenic facility. We recommend certified truckers, such as Birdseye, Green Giant, or Ben & Jerry’s.
“Is cryonics expensive?” Nah. We calculate the cost/value ratio as a paltry $30K/600 months x 365 + a-b + (x%) x 24/7 + 12. The cost of a Dove Bar per day. Clients may also select the cheaper Turtleneck Option. That’s when only the brain is frozen, without all those extra organs, muscles, and other bodily doodads taking up storage space.
Yup, the Turtleneck is your basic beheading. Besides lowered cost, freezing only the head has other advantages: no more missing socks, constipation, or toenail fungus. At last, say goodbye to that “muffin top” midriff!
“Will I be stored belly up?” Very funny. No, you’ll be dunked, upside down, into a giant thermos of super-cooled liquid nitrogen, sharing it with several other corpsicles. Think of it as carpooling to the future! Turtleneck clients, however, will repose in semi-private neurocranial lounging compartments, i.e., a big ice cube tray we call the Noggin Toboggan.
“But I want my own thermos!” Why is everything always about you? This is precisely why everyone thinks you’re a selfish bastard.
“What happens after I’m thawed out?” Depends. How disgusting is your freezer burn? Are you willing to become an amputee? To switch genders? If you’re on Team Turtleneck, your head will wake up to fresh coffee and Danish. Cool, huh? Then we’ll either regrow the rest of you or set up a Meet & Greet with a headless goon from the temp agency.
“Freezer burn?!? I don’t like the sound of that.” Oh, picky, picky. We friggin’ bring you back to life, and you whine about a little disfigurement?
“What else could go wrong?” Jeez, you really are a worrier! I suppose there’s a chance that the company may founder and turn the place into a Starbucks. It’s also possible that a minimum-wage high school kid will botch the critical thawing process. Then again, you could be successfully thawed but wake up in July on the outskirts of Tucson. And I don’t mean poolside, sipping a Margarita. No, I’m talkin’ a wake-up call inside a dark, locked U-STOR-IT shed. And if you’re a Turtleneck dude, good luck dialing 911.
“If I eat a big dinner before I, uh, de-animate, will I be full when I wake up? Will there be a bathroom nearby? Any vending machines?” Man, you are so fried, I suggest cremation.
“Can I be cremated and also frozen?” Righto! With our new Baked Alaska package, we’ll gladly toast you crispy, sweep you into an ice cream cone, and then freeze your sorry ash.
Personally, I hate being cold. So, instead of cryonics, I’m gonna have my rotting carcass dipped into brightly colored wax, labeled, and packed in a cardboard box with other dead artists. That’s right. Crayonics.
Copyright © 2010 by Mary Tompsett
* * *
Mary Tompsett is a self-syndicated humorist who lives with her dog and cats on the far east side of Santa Cruz (okay, Racine, Wisconsin). Her horse left the family for a more stable environment. Read more at www.marytompsett.com.

DATELINE—Monterey, CA
Local mild-mannered real estate broker Tom Burns has unveiled plans to put Monterey on the map. In an exclusive interview, Mr. Burns shares his exciting, ambitious plans.
FT: We at Foolish Times are eager to hear your idea. It has something to do with dogs?
TB: Yes.
FT: Could you be more specific?
TB: Sure.
FT: Well?
TB: Well what?
FT: WHAT IS YOUR IDEA?
TB: Oh, yeah. The idea. It’s simple, really. I merged two existing ideas to form a new one. Kind of like hot dogs and buns. Simon and Garfunkel. Lindsay Lohan and rehab.
FT: What did you combine, sir?
TB: Well, you’ve probably heard of the Running Of The Bulls in Pamplona, Spain? Herds of bulls sent caroming down the village alleys, maiming, mauling, and goring the local morons who let the bulls chase them?
FT: Yeeeeeesssss. I’m afraid to ask . . .
TB: Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I give you . . .
FT: I’m holding my breath.
TB: The Running Of The Dachshunds!!!
FT: I’m sorry. I thought you said The Running Of The Dachshunds.
TB: Bingo, baby.
FT: Give me a moment to compose myself.
TB: Beethoven used to compose himself. Now he’s decomposing.
FT: Old joke. Bad joke.
TB: You get what you pay for.
FT: And as I understand, we are not paying you for this interview. Point well taken.
TB: No need to get snippy. I plan to cordon off Alvarado Street in downtown Monterey. The Run will be out to the end of the wharf and back.
FT: Sir, let me get this straight. You plan to have the locals let a pack of Dachshunds chase them through Monterey, out to the end of Fisherman’s Wharf and back again?
TB: Indeed.
FT: Why?
TB: Why? The same reason they do it in Spain! The thrill of danger! Tempting death!
FT: With Dachshunds? Their ears almost drag on the ground and their legs are only two, three inches long. Dachshunds?
TB: Ever been chased by a dachshund?
FT: Can’t say as I have.
TB: Well, I’ve got one that will tear a leg off of you if you get on the wrong side of him. I’ve seen him eat ten hot dogs in one sitting. That’s seventy in dog years. I’ve seen him chase the mailman, er, oops, mailperson, down the street at forty miles an hour. That’s where I got the idea.
FT: Why would your dog chase a mail carrier down the street at forty miles an hour?
TB: The mailperson delivered a copy of “Cat Fancier Quarterly” to us by mistake.
FT: Sounds like you’ve got a temperamental dog on your hands.
TB: It gets worse. I bought discount dog food once and he chewed the leg off the dining room table. That’s seven dining table legs in dog yea . . .
FT: STOP! Stop with the dog years. Stop with the craziness. Stop with this stupid story, for God’s sakes!
TB: I’ve already notified the media. CNN is coming! Wolf Blitzer is covering it . . .
FT: THE Wolf Blitzer?
TB: The same. Say, I can arrange to have Wolf do a story with you. Maybe you could co-anchor the event.
FT: Me? With Wolf Blitzer?
TB: You’ve been lookin’ for that big break, right? Am I right?
FT: Me . . . Wolf Blitzer . . .
TB: Maybe I could sell you the European rights. The book rights. The movie rights.
FT: Boy, this is going to be big. This is brilliant! I must admit, Mr. Burns, this is a million-dollar idea.
TB: Do the math. That’s seven million in dog years!
FT: I thought you were gonna’ quit with the “dog years” thing.
TB: Don’t push me, or I’ll call Wolfie and you’re out of the mix, bucko.
FT: Can I be in the Running Of The Dachshunds?
TB: Sure. And here’s the secret to staying alive: wear ankle-high tennis shoes so they can’t bite you.

March birthdays: As you celebrate your birthday this March, remember that your greatest fortune is the large number of friends you have. Don’t worry about the fact that most of them are prison pen-pals. Worry instead about when they get out.

ARIES (3/21-4/19): Nature, time, and patience are the three best physicians. Lucky for you. With the state of health care, they are the only three physicians you can afford.

TAURUS (4/20-5/20): Happy news is on its way to you. It has been on its way to you for years. It has not reached you because it is using MapQuest. It may be at the bottom of a lake or the base of a cliff.

GEMINI (5/21-6/21): Your many hidden talents will become obvious to those around you. Consider relegating your thieving to night, rather than day, and to strangers, rather than friends and family, and to neighboring towns, rather than your own.

CANCER (6/22-7/22): Life will throw you a pleasant curve. Which is much better than a nasty slider or a devastating change-up. You couldn’t hit one of those to save your life.

LEO (7/23-8/22): Excitement and intrigue follow you closely wherever you go. They will never quite catch you, but isn’t it pleasant to think about how close (yet out of reach) they are?

VIRGO (8/23-9/22): Make two grins grow where there was only a grouch before. Easier said than done, you say? Not at all! Luckily you have numerous chins and can manage all three at once!

LIBRA (9/23-10/22): A pleasant surprise is in store for you. But it will be extremely unpleasant if you have a history of heart trouble.

SCORPIO (10/23-11/21): It takes more than a good memory to have good memories. It takes an exotic lifestyle, fame, fortune, and numerous lovers. So to improve your memory, forget the fish oil and start playing the lottery.

SAGITTARIUS (11/22-12/21): A thrilling time is in your immediate future. Of course, these words were written a month ago to hit deadline. That thrilling time is gone forever.

CAPRICORN (12/22-1/19): Ideas are like children; there are none so wonderful as your own. Bear this idea in mind when making your child-support payments.

AQUARIUS (1/20-2/18): Many people find beauty in the ordinary. You find beauty not in the ordinary, but in the beautiful. Take time to cultivate this ability. Frankly, it is the only one you have.

PISCES (2/19-3/20): Something you lost will soon turn up. Namely, the cops.

Steal these jokes.

The Loan
One day while at her job as a bank loan officer, Patty Black had a frog hop onto her desk and say, “I would like to apply for a lily-pad improvement loan.”
Patty looked incredulously at the frog and said, “I’m sorry, we don’t loan money to frogs.”
The frog replied, “I have collateral,” and he handed her a small ceramic trinket.
Not wanting to be impolite, Patty said, “I don’t know. I’ll have to talk to the bank manager.”
She walked back to the manager’s office and said, “There’s a frog out there, asking for a lily-pad improvement loan, and this trinket is all he has for collateral.”
The bank manager took the trinket and examined it carefully. Smiling, he said, “Why, it’s a knick-knack, Patty Black. Give the frog a loan!”

Haircut
Chris had just turned sixteen, and like a lot of kids his age, had very long hair. He went to his dad and asked for a special birthday present: a new car. His dad replied, “Son, I’ll buy you any car you want as long as you raise your grades and cut your hair.” Chris agreed to the deal.
The next week, Chris brought home his report card. He had raised his C’s to B’s and his B’s to A’s. His father said, “I’m proud of you, son.”
Chris figured the timing was right, so he said he really wanted a red convertible.
His dad said, “Sorry, you haven’t cut your hair yet.”
Chris said, “Well, Jesus had long hair.”
His dad said, “Yeah, and he walked everywhere he went.”

This Month’s Blonde Joke
Did you hear about the two Blondes who were found frozen to death in their car at the drive-in movie theater?
They went to see “Closed for Winter.”

Foolish Jr. Laughs

“Jokes for the Grandkids”

Q: What’s the longest word in the dictionary?
A: The word “smiles,” because there’s a “mile” between each s.

Q: Who earns a living driving their customers away?
A: A taxi driver.

Q: Why did the chicken cross the playground?
A: To get to the other slide.

Q: What happened to the dog that swallowed a firefly?
A: It barked with de-light!

Q: What is a baby’s motto?
A: “If at first you don’t succeed, cry, cry again!”