The Overly Observant Frum & The Groundhog

The groundhog is similar to a Jewish frum woman. For those of you who are unfamiliar with what a frum is, they are generally over-observant, orthodox in mind and spirit and to some degree, under-sexed and sometimes be riddled with guilt, thanks in part to old world values prescribed by their individual social communities or what others tell them, without checking what is true and what is a falsehood.

There are varying forms of frumality, from the wearing of wigs for a sense of pride and perhaps shame, to just going to shul and keeping kosher, which to me is a true racket, but that’s another opinion for another time!

Some frum women even hide behind the cloak of frumhood, for they truly do not know what they desire.

On February 2, it is traditional for the groundhog to come out of its burrow and supposedly see its shadow; it’s an old superstition and supposedly sees its shadow, but how can it see its real shadow, when there are scores of news camera floodlights and field lights pointed directly at it?

In that way, how can an observant frum see her real shadow when she sees other shadows in her path she so trusts and feels comfortable with, when those very same shadows are casting doubts on what is wrong and what she needs to do in order to get into the righteous shadowy path?

Groundhog Day was originated by Germans who believed that if an animal that hibernated cast a shadow on February 2, the Christian holiday called Candlemas, winter would last six more weeks, yet if the animal didn’t see its shadow, an early spring would soon emerge.

Somehow, that doesn’t seem to matter though, as on the regular calendar year, we always know when the seasons will be, groundhog or no groundhog.

Therefore, a true groundhog does not see its shadow, like the female frum who does not look beyond her own shadow to determine what is and what is not.

Sometimes, the female frum, like the groundhog…is blind.

God Bless America My Ass!>Harsh Words On President Bush From The MishegasMaster

Unfortunately last night, I only caught the last 20 minutes of President Bush’s State of The Union address, but I’m sure I can read between the lines of his annual diatribe he recites to the nation of North Americans like me.

Even before President Bush made his speech my mind was made up, sadly, but true of course. President Bush has had four long years to prove himself and in those first four years, he’s made himself look like a bigger buffoon than he’s really made himself out to be.

In his fifth year of his presidency, he looks more like pieces of broken glass scattered in the streets than anything else that seems to be put back together by his own infantry, which at the present moment is putting their life on the line, by serving a endless war with no known goal in sight, other than maybe to waste a few billion dollars more over the course of the next three years.

Even his own Republican party is getting tired of him and yet he persists to behave like a clown in the public eye! What he gives out to the public is rhetoric and American citizens are tired of the bullshit!

The trouble with his speech last night was that he read it like the way most news anchors read the news over a teletype machine, with a monotone-pitched voice, drone-eyed look and with little confidence.

Oh course those U.S Congressmen/women and U.S Senators are going to cheer him on, that’s what they are paid to do for the most part! My most troubled thoughts lie within his own speech declaration of how this country is “addicted to oil,” when almost everyone else knows that in fact, it’s Bush and his family who are addicted to oil!

Hell! It was this addiction to oil that started this goalless terrorist war to begin with; he had to protect his precious investments, so why not just start a purposeless war to cover up his true motivation?

And speaking of motivation, did you see how he claimed that our economy is “roaring”? What fucking planet is he on, Uranus? Does he call a slashing of over 30,000 jobs from Ford Motor Co in Detroit, Michigan and the slicing of 8,000 jobs from Kraft Foods in Glenview, Illinois signs of a roaring economy? I think not!

I think he’s blind to the situation at hand and if companies continue to cut jobs like the way barbers cut hair from Tuesday through Saturday, then we’re going to see a lot more bloodletting on the streets of America, just you wait and see!

You think America is so terrible now, just you wait, dear friends, just you wait!

Not only can our wonderful dictator president not conduct a press conference without stumbling or stammering like a blubbering idiot, but he can’t even answer straight questions from reporters or hold his own in a debate!

Yep, this is the president that the U.S. Supreme Court elected and look what he’s done; made a beautiful country like America go straight down the crapper.

God bless America my ass!

Your Life Can Be Had For A Song, Just Ask Oprah Winfrey

We live in a crazy world; a world that is so drop-kick instant coffee plasmatic television, honor your mother and father like yesterday’s news.

Life is cheap and we choose not to honor a life until it is completely over. Souls doth walk the planet and rise when spoken to for various reasons and sleep when they find the chance and continue to make good on what they deem to be their lives’ work.

Not everyone, however, is so lucky to find a life so fortunate and fruitful. Some have to dodge bullets and run away from bombs lobbed in their general direction. Still, they persist.

“The Evil-Doers” don’t get too far in this world; they will plan and execute many schemes over and over again, but rarely do they succeed. When they do, they receive their “just desserts,” 15 minutes of fleeting fame and a page in someone’s personal history of life, whomever that might affect.

Yet, they’ll keep on exerting their great conspiracies of times that would never come to fruition, despite the brilliancy and the creativity, the theories like all conspiracies are dismissed as crackpot thinkers and get shoved away from prying eyes, boxed up and put into storage until there is an appropriate time for them to appear on the scene once again.

Seems that there are lots of conspirators floating in the oceans, lakes, rivers, streams and creeks lately, as well as lots of feet walking or trampling on one another trying to be the first person to make their point known.

Then there are “The Buggers,” the ones who after being abused or tormented, physically or mentally, a little too much will snap in two like a twig.

These are the folks that you must be careful of and must watch your back, for you never know when they will stab you when you least expect it!

It could be through a vengeful tactic or it could be ensnared so well in their warped little minds, that their own one-sided puny views of the world should be felt by everyone else, whether they have oodles of cash, status, and self-appointed power or are as poor as trailer-trash hillbillies in the Deep South.

These are the kind of folks that will ply you with all sorts of trinkets, convince you to see their point of view, try to control you and of course, most people will bite into their words, most importantly money, status and self-appointed power.

Coretta Scott-King bit into it; so did James Frey. Tom Cruise was sucker-punched, as was Neil Diamond, Sir Paul McCartney and an entire host of other actors, musicians, rich suburban housewives with filthy-rich husbands who slave away at the office without so much as being rewarded for their money-making.

Then of course, there are those that accuse others before they realize they are the true culprits, duped or otherwise.

Oprah Winfrey is one such woman.

American Yarnprose>Dizzy Mad Spell

Dizzy mad spell of staircase inuendoizations idolizing terror-sport spear-chuckers.

Swearing the imprint stone-covered wagon wheel called into question by government sources.

Wired like Brillo pads scrubbed and scraped across dirty tile floors. Scarves inverted like snaking pylons.

Oranged overhills. Piling dead ants scattered on picnic blankets folded and smushed together. Hurriedly thrown inside car trunks and yellow cabs.

Couch-slamming, ear-jamming, strips of cloth being tossed off. Little by lot.

Shooting back tongues and hugs and cell phones and drinks. Smoking coffee. Drinking cigarettes.

Carnival of ice hits me like a brick sandwich.
I need to eat my excitement in several bites and not swallow my emotions whole.
I’m up to my eyeballs in strained peas.
I want to be everything at once.

American Yarnprose>Bad Chinese Chicken

I stripped bare and carefully tucked myself into my bed, blue and white cozy covering me from chest to feet. Felt the coldness of my pads from my feet as they pressed together. Still, I was reeling from that unexpected trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Bad Chinese chicken, I thought. Had to fix some tea, but for me, choosing what kind of tea I was going to have was the toughest part. After all, with at least 13 different flavors to choose from, it was like going to a Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop and asking for a triple scoop of Rocky Road, peanut butter and fudge caramel cone. Not me, no not tonight. Therefore, I decided to take and brew some Red Zinger tea, because I knew that it always put me in a false state of drunkardness. Why? I never knew. My eyes felt droopy even from the mere smell of it. How pleasant it tasted, even with eight tablespoons of sugar. I remember this one time, in a Chinese restaurant, when a friend of mine had uttered this silly remark.

“More tea with your sugar?”

I had felt irritable shortly before I felt sick to my stomach, always the sure giveaway before you clutch your stomach and prepare for a hideous vomit launch. Although my stomach was restless and wounded, at that particular moment, everything felt calm, very calm. I had not vomited a drop of anything and this alone proved to be a good all-clear sign that my sickness had passed.

Let Children Live And Learn As We Once Did AKA Independency Has Its Rewards

For the past several weeks, there’s been a subtle invasion going on, that strange cookie invasion of little Girl Scouts everywhere you go.

But there’s something odd about it, yes, something very odd and it’s being taking place under our very noses and eyes for the past several years and that is the absence of parents taking their young daughters around, door-to-door.

Seems that some parents don’t have time to spend with children anymore, so many take the lazy way out and just bring them to the office to sell. They make little signs, they hit up on their co-workers to buy their daughters’ edible wares once a year and most people take the bait and bite!

The Girl Scouts aren’t the only group that sells wares, there are other groups that sell candies, candles and other worthless junk to which parents feel obligated to bring their children’s items and sell to offices across the United States too.

They tell us they are raising funds for their troops or schools in the fine print on the order form or if you ask them directly.

I always wondered whatever happened to parents who wanted their children to learn valuable skills on their own and not with this parent’s help. What could a kid possibly learn from Mommy and Daddy helping them all the time, especially in light of selling cookies or other junk food?

Would it show a child that if Mommy and Daddy help them out all of the time, that it would mean independence would be harder to achieve over time? I think so.

How is it that if parents raise children while teaching their children right from wrong, that some parents tend to forget that they must stay out of their children’s lives to a certain degree, in order to let them gain valuable life experience by letting them figure out situations such as selling on their own?

Some parents claim they don’t have time for their children because of other obligations like work, yet when one thinks about it, what’s the purpose of having children to begin with in the first place, other than a tax write-off?

When I was younger and delivered newspapers for the Park Ridge News Agency (Park Ridge, Illinois), I sold newspaper subscriptions to other neighbors along the two newspaper routes. I had, my morning route (Chicago Tribune & Chicago Sun-Times) and my afternoon route (Chicago Daily News). We earned money and points for prizes such as transistor radios, baseball mitts and small television sets.

It gave kids like me a chance to develop ideas and sales pitches on our own. I only went to my parents The Arizona Babe & Rex Pater Homo when I was stuck or ran into dead-ends. They never helped me out with that sort of stuff and I believe I am now better off for that.

Sure they were around for other important factors in my growing up, but I believe if parents really want to help their children achieve their personal life goals, they should let their children sell their own stuff and let them alone to understand the differences between superficial sales with their parents help and reality sales without their parents help.

Parents of America now hear this: Take those cookies and other junk foods that you pressure others to buy to help your kids out and figure out a better plan. If you’ve gotten this far, then I’m sure you’re capable of it!

As for the parents who say they want to be involved with every aspect of their children’s life, more power to you! Just let them live as you so did and the rewards will be plentiful!

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Mad Girls Rat Show Music

Well, here we are, the last Friday of the month and what a nice easy week it's been for me, no surprises this week and that's the kind of week I love!!! I sure hope everyone of you kind folks out there in Blogville also had a good week,this being the sweet capper for a solid cozy weekend! Well, I think this funky little poem will suffice for today. And remember my dear readers, always, always, enjoy!!!

Mad Girls Rat Show Music

We dream

The beat rocks raw

Knifing through weak moments

Of

Fluffy drunk worship

Song Of The States: A Simple Song To Remember My Dad And My Own Youth By

When I was a lad, I remember well that my dad, Rex Pater Homo, used to sing a lot of songs to me and lately, I’ve been remembering them and there’s this one in particular I remember with much fondness.

He always loved to sing around the house when we were growing up, even if the melodies he was singing weren’t always in tune, I just remember him singing his heart into a song.

Most parents tend to sing to and with their children whether they are famous or not. And whether they realize it or not, some of those songs tend to grow on a person’s soul, eating away at you, until you just know that you gotta find that song!

And at last, I have found the words to the one song that has stuck in my head the most, called “Song Of The States,” in which he would gleefully sing to me in a funny, yet happy voice. Rex says that he learned that song when he was a camp counselor in his youth.

With such innovations as the Internet, for which I am eternally grateful, I have found the lyrics to the song, which perhaps you might consider checking out the lyrics yourself and sing them loud and proud! Although the song is repetitive, it’s still worth the trouble to look at it and sing it. It has no known melody that I’m aware of, so just make up your own! If all else fails and you can’t pronounce the words correctly, enunciation or sound the words out; above all, have fun with it!

The lyrics I found online only listed 11 states, you can always add in your own home state, which I will do in this version, plus three additional states adding up to a grand total of 15! Unfortunately, I’ve found that most states don’t fit in with the song, which is probably why it’s so short.

Remember dear readers; love your America! Don’t dump on your America! This land is your land; make it your place to roam, it is your responsibility to keep America strong by taking pride in your country, despite the idiots in power who run it deep into the ground.

Song Of The States

Oh, what did Della ware, (Delaware) my boys, oh what did Della ware? Oh, what did Della ware, my boys, oh what did Della ware? Oh what did Della ware, my boys, oh what did Della ware? I ask you now as a personal friend, oh what did Della ware?

She wore her New Jersey (New Jersey), dear boys, she wore her New Jersey She wore her New Jersey, dear boys, she wore her New Jersey She wore her New Jersey, dear boys, she wore her New Jersey. I'm telling you now as a personal friend, she wore her New Jersey.

Oh, how did Flori-die, (Florida) my boys, oh how did Florie-die? Oh, how did Flori-die, my boys, oh how did Flori-die? I ask you now as a personal friend, oh how did Flori-die?

She died in Misery (Missouri) dear boys, she died in Misery, she died in Misery dear boys, she died in Misery. I’m telling you now as a personal friend she died in Misery.

Oh, what did Io-way (Iowa) my boys? Oh what did Io-way? Oh what did Io-way my boys? Oh what did Io-way, Oh what did Io-way my boys, oh what did Io-way? I’m asking you now as a personal friend, oh what did Io-way?

She weighed a Washing-ton (Washington) dear boys, she weighed a Washing-ton. She weighed a Washing-ton dear boys, she weighed a Washing-ton. She weighed a Washing-ton dear boys, she weighed a Washing-ton. I’m telling you now as a personal friend, she weighed a Washing-ton.

Oh, what did Ida-ho (Idaho), my boys, oh what did Ida-ho? Oh, what did Ida-ho (Idaho), my boys, oh what did Ida-ho? Oh, what did Ida-ho (Idaho), my boys, oh what did Ida-ho? I ask you now as a personal friend, oh what did Ida-ho?

She hoed her Mary-land (Maryland) dear boys; she hoed her Mary-land. She hoed her Mary-land (Maryland) dear boys; she hoed her Mary-land. She hoed her Mary-land (Maryland) dear boys; she hoed her Mary-land. I’m telling you now as a personal friend, she hoed her Mary-land.

Oh, how did Wiscon-sin (Wisconsin), my boys, oh how did Wiscon-sin? Oh, how did Wiscon-sin (Wisconsin), my boys, oh how did Wiscon-sin? Oh, how did Wiscon-sin (Wisconsin), my boys, oh how did Wiscon-sin? I ask you now as a personal friend, oh how did Wiscon-sin?

She stole a New-bras-key dear boys, she stole a New-bras-key. She stole a New-bras-key dear boys, she stole a New-bras-key. She stole a New-bras-key dear boys, she stole a New-bras-key. I tell you now as a personal friend, she stole a New-bras-key.

Oh, what did Tennis-see my boys, oh what did Tennis-see? (Tennessee) Oh, what did Tennis-see my boys, oh what did Tennis-see? Oh, what did Tennis-see my boys, oh what did Tennis-see? I ask you now as a personal friend, oh what did Tennis-see?

He saw an Arkans-saw (Arkansas) dear boys, he saw an Arkans-saw. He saw an Arkans-saw (Arkansas) dear boys, he saw an Arkans-saw. He saw an Arkans-saw dear boys, he saw an Arkans-saw. I’m telling you now as a personal friend, he saw an Arkans-saw.

Oh, where has Orie-gon (Oregon) my boys, oh where has Orie-gon? Oh, where has Orie-gon my boys, oh where has Orie-gon? Oh, where has Orie-gon my boys, oh where has Orie-gon? I ask you now as a personal friend, oh where has Orie-gon?

She's taking Okla-home (Oklahoma) dear boys; she’s taking Okla-home. She's taking Okla-home dear boys; she’s taking Okla-home. She's taking Okla-home (Oklahoma) dear boys; she’s taking Okla-home. I’m telling you now as a personal friend, she’s taking Okla-home.

Oh, what did Massa-chew (Massachusetts) dear boys, oh what did Massa-chew? Oh, what did Massa-chew (Massachusetts) dear boys, oh what did Massa-chew?

Oh, what did Massa-chew (Massachusetts) dear boys, oh what did Massa-chew?

I ask you now as a personal friend, oh what did Massa-chew?

She chewed her Connecti-cud (Connecticut), dear boys; she chewed her Connecti-cud. She chewed her Connecti-cud, dear boys; she chewed her Connecti-cud. She chewed her Connecti-cud, dear boys; she chewed her Connecti-cud. I’m telling you now as a personal friend, she chewed her Connecti-cud.

Oh what did Missi-sip (Mississippi) my boys, oh what did Missi-sip? Oh what did Missi-sip (Mississippi) my boys, oh what did Missi-sip? Oh what did Missi-sip (Mississippi) my boys, oh what did Missi-sip? I ask you now as a personal friend, oh what did Missi-sip?

She sipped her Mini-soda (Minnesota) dear boys, she sipped her Mini-soda. She sipped her Mini-soda dear boys, she sipped her Mini-soda. She sipped her Mini-soda dear boys, she sipped her Mini-soda. . I’m telling you now as a personal friend, she sipped her Mini-soda.

Oh what did Ohi-owe (Ohio) my boys, oh what did Ohi-owe? Oh what did Ohi-owe my boys, oh what did Ohi-owe? Oh what did Ohi-owe my boys, oh what did Ohi-owe? I ask you now as a personal friend, oh what did Ohi-owe?

She owed her stated Taxes (Texas), dear boys, she owed her stated Taxes. She owed her stated Taxes, dear boys, she owed her stated Taxes. She owed her stated Taxes, dear boys, she owed her stated Taxes. I’m telling you now as a personal friend, she owed her stated Taxes.

Oh, why did Cali-fone (California) my boys, oh why did Cali-fone? Oh, why did Cali-fone my boys, oh why did Cali-fone? Oh, why did Cali-fone my boys, oh why did Cali-fone? She called to say how-are-yee (Hawaii) dear boys, she called to say how-are-yee. She called to say how-are-yee dear boys, she called to say How-are-yee. She called to say how-are-yee dear boys, she called to say how-are-yee. I’m telling you now as a personal friend, she called to say how-are-yee.

Oh, what did old Ken Tuck (Kentucky) my boys, oh what did old Ken Tuck? Oh, what did old Ken Tuck my boys, oh what did old Ken Tuck? Oh, what did old Ken Tuck my boys, oh what did old Ken Tuck? I’m asking you now as a personal friend, oh what did old Ken Tuck?

He tucked a Virgin’y (Virginia), dear boys, he tucked a Virgin’y. He tucked a Virgin’y (Virginia), dear boys, he tucked a Virgin’y. He tucked a Virgin’y (Virginia), dear boys, he tucked a Virgin’y. I’m telling you now as a personal friend, he tucked a Virgin’y.

Oh why was El annoyed (Illinois) my boys, oh why was El annoyed? Oh why was El annoyed my boys, oh why was El annoyed? Oh why was El annoyed my boys, oh why was El annoyed? I’m asking you now as a personal friend, oh why was El annoyed?

A New Yorkie (New York) bit her hard, dear boys, a New Yorkie bit her hard. A New Yorkie bit her hard, dear boys, a New Yorkie bit her hard. A New Yorkie bit her hard, dear boys, a New Yorkie bit her hard. I’m telling you now as a personal friend, a New Yorkie bit her hard.

Flibbing The Flab & Chewing The Fat: An Occupational Hazard>Act 21

Disclaimer: Imprisoned inside every fat cat is a skinny Minnie tearing to get out. Yet while thin people believe they are beautiful, fatties are fantastic. Fiction can be that way sometimes. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental & should not be taken or misconstrued as such. Anyone who thinks otherwise, probably believes that the only way to look thin is to hang out with fat people.

There seems to be a major health crisis in our country that is spreading across to well, virtually everywhere, including Devil’s Island. The battle of the bulge is nothing new, but inside the unfriendly walls of Devil’s Island the problem is a touch more noticeable than other prison systems.

It’s also kind of strange that most of the plump prisoners are housed together, with the exception of a few who lucked out and have their own padded cells in other parts of Devil’s Island.

It’s noticeable enough, that when one particular person walks by, the entire floor shakes or vibrates. Besides the most obvious prisoners that are flibbing the flab, there are a host of others, including Matterhorn Melissa, Priestess Paulette, Floodpants Fred, Circus-Tent Sarah, Tubbs McGherkin and Groovy Ruby.

No one seems to know what to do about the burgeoning problem. Facing reality, no one realizes how serious being chubby affects their health.

Some blame it on the food that is served to inmates. How healthy is it to be serving snacks at the crack of dawn and after midnight? How is it that snacks and junk food seem to be the only items prisoners are served? Can’t they find something better to feed the prisoners? Why is it that only the privileged prisoners are allowed to eat good and nutritional food, while the rest of them suffer?

Is Upper Prison Brass so coldly cruel and thoughtless that they think with their wallets instead of their hearts and minds? Some also blame it on that many of the prisoners never get enough exercise in the Devil’s Island prison yard.

If you took a poll among Devil's Island prisoners many would say they never get enough exercise, because primarily they are stationed within their cells nearly 24 hours a day, due to unwritten martial law, as prescribed previously since the day of the Great Prison Blackout and Riot.

The Most Holy Father is one of those individuals that appears to be extremely unkind to most prisoners, despite the fact that he makes striving efforts to care about some of the other inmates. Some believe this is a two-faced act, while still others believe the actions symbolize a new willingness to overcome some of the bigger obstacles facing Prisoner to Prison Authority relations.

Could it also be that obesity is there lurking in the corner not far behind? Could it be that after all the maltreatment and misguidedness that has been directed on several members of the prison population, that the guilt is finally come back to haunt him?

Doubtful.

Sadly Devil's Island is beginning to look a lot like a fat farm and yet, it doesn’t take away the fact that fat is where it is at on Devil’s Island and not a single solitary person is doing anything about it.

What happens one day if say several prisoners are walking across the Devil’s Island wobbly wooden bridge to the prison yard and a few of the plumpers get on and the wobbly wooden bridge collapses?

Devil’s Island inmates would hate to have to find out.

Nightmare In America: Coming Soon To A Television Network Near You: The Buttafocco & Amy Fisher Reunion

Does anyone really care about “whatever happened to Joey Buttafocco, Amy Fisher AKA Long Island Lolita & Mary Jo Buttafocco, Joey’s wife whose face was maimed as a result of teenager Amy Fisher's attempted murder plot back in 1992?

Sure, there were lots of good and bad jokes made by late night TV talk show hosts at their expense, the press by all means, had a field day for weeks, just on Joey & Mary Jo’s last name alone, but…pardon me; I meant to say.

Let’s take the last name apart and see why everyone seems to think it’s so funny. The first part of the last name of course, is Butt, pronounced bŭt, rhymes with slut, yet I’m straying.

The word butt has always been a funny word, mostly uncomfortable for some adults, while funny as hell for little kids and comedians. Not a lot of people would admit to using the word butt in a conversation, except in phrases like, “I’ll have the butt steak, please” or “I’m gonna kick some butt,” and then again, there's always the punk rock band, The Butthole Surfers. Yet other times and accordingly, when describing a particular sex act, you wouldn’t say, “Let’s have butt sex.”

It sounds a little weird, as strange as the act itself if you’re not used to it. It’s almost the same as using the word ass. You never say, “I’ll have the ass steak, please,” you can say however, “I’m gonna kick some ass,” yet you never say, “Let’s have ass sex.” However, in the case of the latter, you’d say properly, “Let’s have anal sex.”

The second part of Joey's & Mary Jo's last name there’s an A. The letter A is only an A and nothing more to debate over. Then there’s the word focco. What the heck is a focco, anyway? There’s nothing in the English language that defines what it is and it only rhymes with nonsense words.

Taking the word focco apart, you pronounce the first syllable as fook, which could easily be misread as fuck and if you join the words butt and fuc, together with the letter "A", you have the word buttafuc, which when you add the last syllable co, with it, when defined, means two sharing, as in co-op or co-ed. Together the word means transliterated, a pair of butt-fuckers!

So, as I asked earlier, does anyone really care about whatever happened to Joey Buttafocco, Amy Fisher AKA Long Island Lolita & Mary Jo Buttafocco, Joey’s wife whose face was maimed as a result of teenager Amy Fisher's attempted murder plot back in 1992?

They are planning on a reunion for national television, but have yet to find a television network to buy this garbage.

So, in light of that, do you really want to see a pair of butt-fuckers and a former slutty Lolita-type appearing on national television telling you all how they’ve put this experience “behind” them?

If you ask me, I think they would rather enjoy being “behind” one another once more, a public dousing of their further adventures of royal butt-fucking each other for a number of years, confessional butt-fucking and telling each other how much they enjoyed butt-fucking each other and how they need to air out their dirty laundry in public and of course, why did the little slut shoot Mary Jo in the face to begin with?

Does anybody really care?

It all seems so very convoluted to me. Imagine that, and people want to watch and relive this crap all over again?

There is something terribly wrong with these United States, something terribly wrong.

True Midwestern American Stories> Act One-Joe & Ruby

Joe and Ruby were lovers; lovers like no other couple on the face of the planet. Joe was a talent scout, while Ruby was a tap-dancer on the local dance circuit. Both Joe & Ruby were a seamless couple and just right for each other that is until the bottom dropped out, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Joe Churchill had been down on his luck like most talent scouts of his ilk, always critiquing, always criticizing, had a list of enemies as long as a city block, yet he knew practically everyone in the entertainment industry.

One night so it went, Joe went drinking at his favorite club on 45^th Street, at the Taxi-Dance Nightclub. Well, after his third drink, Joe was getting a little fuzzy, but not so fuzzy that he couldn’t remember people, places or events on the very same night.

Jim, the old grizzled master of ceremonies hopped out from behind the curtains and walked over to the center of the stage and yanked down the microphone that was hanging from the ceiling. Jim’s eyes were extremely bloodshot, as were most folks in the nightclub that evening. Seems everyone in the nightclub drank to forget their troubles for a while.

Jim spoke directly into the microphone, slurring his speech slightly. “Ladies and gentlemen; tonight we have a special treat for you,” growled Jim, as the dozen or so patrons looked up from their drinks. “Please give a warm Taxi-Dance welcome to Ruby Martin, the greatest little tap-dancer since Bojangles.”

Almost all of the patrons went back to downing their drinks and chatter, as the curtain rose and out flew Ruby, gliding across the stage with the little tippity-tappity sounds that echoed throughout the nightclub. Ruby danced her way through several routines, shaking her body, most notably, chest and behind.

It was during one of those routines, that Joe just happened to look up from his beer bottle and almost as if he were awakening from a drunken stupor, he took a long gander at Ruby. Ruby was in the midst of a cart wheeling-summersault tapping routine.

For the first time in a long time, Joe’s brain started functioning, as he heard instead of the little tippity-tappity sounds that followed Ruby everywhere she rambled onstage, he heard cha-ching! Dollar signs filled his eyes almost immediately and overflowed like tears streaming down his face.

He had found his wonder-horse, his lottery ticket, his one big chance of making everything that seemed so down and out in the world, come back to his soul and light a fire within him.

After Ruby finished her dance number, she bowed and tippity-tapped her way backstage, to where Joe was waiting for her.

“Hey Ruby, that was some good dancing you did there. Say, how would like to make a little extra dough? No funny business, I mean strictly tap-dancing, your terms your routines; I put you in some great places, you get the recognition, I manage you. Whadda say?”

Ruby, at first kind of shy of the lanky drunken man smelling of alcohol, as she dabbed the sweat off of her shoulders and slipped off her shoes and put on street shoes, looked up at Joe and shrugged her shoulders.

“Gee, mister. I don’t even know you from Adam. How do I know you’re not going to pull a fast one and try to lure me into bed? I know men like you and you’re all the same: wolves,” she snapped.

“Tell you what I’m gonna do, Miss Martin,” he slurred. “Just to prove to you that I’m on the level, I’m gonna treat you like business. No funny stuff, I promise. My word is always on the level, always. If I’m not truthful to you, then I’ll just walk away and forget like we ever met. Deal?”

Ruby just nodded her head, as Joe gave her his card. Call me in a week, I’ll have work for ya,” said Joe.

And that’s exactly what Ruby did. She called Joe a week later and sure enough he did line work up for her. He got her a gig at the Kit-Kit Club on 42^nd Street. That one lasted three weeks. Then he got her a gig at the Whales & Tales Tavern & Grill between 48^th Street and Smith Boulevard. That one lasted three months.

Then Joe got her a gig at the Top-Hat Club, that as they both found out, would last for three years! Now, Joe was really rolling in the dough, as was Ruby. One night, after a gig at the Top-Hat, Joe and Ruby sat next to each other at the bar, toasting one another to their success.

“See? Didn’t I tell ya Ruby? No funny stuff and look where you ended up? The Top-Hat Club, one of the hottest clubs this side of Chicago! You haven’t slept on my couch once and I’ve been on the level with you the whole time,” said Joe.

“Yes, I guess you were right, Joe,” said Ruby. No funny stuff and look where I am. I think you deserve a little reward.”

And with that, Ruby planted a kiss on his lips. The two went at it and for several minutes were engaged in a good old-fashioned lip-lock. There was no looking back for either.

Ruby gave Joe a look that Joe felt in his heart; he knew he shouldn’t do it, but he thought to himself, what the heck you only live once, as he scooped up Ruby in his arms and carried her piggy-back style back to his apartment and threw her on the bed, then jumped atop her and continued what they were doing previously.

Then Joe looked at Ruby; he had to have her right then and there or it was nothing. Ruby wasn’t complaining when they made love for the first time, exploring each other’s bodies with passion, caution and curiosity. They made love three more times that evening.

Joe couldn’t get enough of her and neither could Ruby get enough of him. They fell in love that night, fell in love hard and fast and remained a strong steady couple, Joe as her manager and Ruby, the little tap-dancer that was fast becoming a hit on the local dance circuit.

Soon, the dough began piling up. Ruby started getting better gigs via Joe. The local press began to notice Ruby, as they raved about her dance stylings in every show she danced in. Then Joe was getting Ruby bigger gigs; the dough was getting bigger and coming in faster than ever before; Ruby was tippity-tapping faster than you could say Jack Robbins!

Joe and Ruby decided to move in together. It just made more sense. Joe had even curbed his drinking and didn’t have a drop for several months, until one night when Joe started in with his old habits; the gambling, the leering, which led to drinking.

Ruby scolded him and made him sleep on the couch that night. It would be the first of several times Ruby would make Joe sleep on the couch. So Joe had nothing better to do, but to jerk off and drink his troubles away, not in that order. He kind of felt Ruby was getting a little big-headed, now that she was a local star. After all, thought Joe to himself, I was the one that discovered her.

He got bold enough one night and told her so. Ruby didn’t take it so well and slapped him silly until Joe backed off. Ruby didn’t appreciate the hard times; after all, they were still partners in crime. It upset Ruby that Joe would even have the nerve to say such a thing and made her think of him in a bad light.

Difficulties began to set in. Joe began making demands on Ruby that she wasn’t about to do; things like talk to the press and when she refused, he would take her place and talk to them for her, telling them the same thing he had thought earlier; that he was the one who discovered her, not the other way around. He began divulging secrets that Ruby didn’t want everyone else to know.

One night Ruby told Joe that she had to go somewhere and she’d be home later. Joe said alright and went home. He waited up for her as she danced her way through the door at 2am, all giggly. Right then and there, Joe demanded to know where she went.

“Hey! You don’t own me,” snapped Ruby. I was hanging out with a bunch of my old dancing friends. You got friends Joe and I don’t complain when you hang out with them, do I? You know the answer is no,” said Ruby. “I have rights too and you’d better respect them or one day I’ll be gone.”

“You go on and do that, you little bitch! See if I care! See, I made you who you are and I can make trouble for you too,” he spat angrily.

And with that, Ruby walked out of the apartment.

Joe didn’t hear from Ruby for two weeks and got worried sick. Then she turned up on morning in the local paper, in the middle of a news-story that linked her up as having an affair with a wealthy playwright, who inked a lengthy contract for her to dance on Broadway, New York, New York, the show built entirely around her.

One grey night when Ruby thought Joe might be asleep, Ruby snuck back into the apartment to gather a few things together in a suitcase and make a beeline back to the playwright’s pad. Joe was waiting for her, as he read her the riot act!

“You stupid bitch! I was the one that made you! You’re mine, goddamnit, mine, all mine. You were always mine to begin with,” he shouted at her in a drunken state.

“Not anymore you’re not. Bye Joe,” she said, as she shoved her way past him.

Joe grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back to the couch. He began laying into her, punching her till she bled like a virgin. “I own you, got it? You are my slave! Got that? My slave, no one else’s,” snapped Joe.

Woozy by all accounts, Ruby slowly rose to her feet and kicked him in the balls, sending Joe into a doubled-over position. Then Ruby slipped on her tap shoes, swung her suitcase in one hand and tippity-tapped her way out of the apartment, down the stairs, down the street and into a waiting world.

American SongProse>Talking Blues Song Titles>Act 1

Lots of people all around the world love to write songs, but whether you realize it or not, most music comes from working-man’s blues songs, from the man who works in the field picking cotton, apples and grapes, to the man who delegates power to his fellow peons. This my friends, is where the blues are born. So, while you're off moaning about how bad your own personal situation is, get with the program, ladies and gentlemen! Pick up your pencils or pens and write your own blues songs based on the following titles I am providing you with. It's that easy! Send me whatever you can come up with and I'll publish them here on a future blog!

Complainer Blues

Clean-Up Blues

Dirty Clothes Blues

Rent-A-Cop Blues

Perfectionist Blues

New Car Blues

Used Car Blues

Big Woman Blues

Poor Man’s Blues

Bus Driver Blues

WorkingMan’s Blues

Vacationer’s Blues

Hungry Man’s Blues

Homeless Man’s Blues

Beggar Man’s Blues

Sunny Morning Blues

Smoggy Haze Blues

Old Man Blues

Old Woman Blues

School Day Blues

Night School Blues

College Days Blues

Dropout Blues

WarMonger’s Blues

Draft-Dodger’s Blues

Water Tower Blues

Radical Blues

Left-Wing Blues

Right-Wing Blues

Liberal-Minded Blues

Conservative-Minded Blues

Sunday Morning Blues

Rush Hour Blues

Briefcase Blues

Lunch Bag Blues

Hot Lunch Blues

Cold Cereal Blues

Orange Juice Blues

Apple Cider Blues

Polka-Dotted Blues

1960s Blues

Strung-Out Hippie Blues

Burned-Out Hippie Blues

Old Hippie Blues

Young Hippie Blues

Young Devil Blues

Old Devil Blues

New Devil Blues

Old Angel Blues

Young Angel Blues

Beer Bottle Blues

Brown Bottle Blues

Middle-Man Blues

Deaf-Mute Blues

Crippled Man’s Blues

Crippled Woman’s Blues

Crippled Child’s Blues

Crippled Boy’s Blues

Crippled Girl’s Blues

Blind-Man’s Blues

Blind-Woman’s Blues

Blind Child’s Blues

Broken Arm Blues

Broken Leg Blues

Broken Hand Blues

Broken Finger Blues

Broken Toe Blues

Broken Jaw Blues

Broken Nose Blues

The Amazing Recapture Of The Hypnotic, Yet Suave Anglican Choir Boy: An Occupational Hazard>Act 20

Disclaimer: Dancing and singing are always like games. We as human beings always seem to approach and face our problems while playing hidden games, discovering the cryptic corners of our inner existence while trying to resolve them as much as possible; it’s only the kisses that are universal. Fiction can be that way sometimes. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental & should not be taken or misconstrued as such. Anyone who thinks otherwise, probably believes that loving others counts as an end to the beginning of birth of fairness.

A strange phenomenon is happening around Devil’s Island; old inmates are being recaptured after years of being on the lam. One would think after escaping from Devil’s Island, the crude, yet sickly inner walls of hell-on-earth, that one would want to stay out and stay as far away as possible, keep themselves well-hidden and disappear into the slipstream of time, but oh no!

Nothing doing for The Anglican Choir Boy, as he said outside his makeshift rundown piney woods shack in the middle of nowhere, waiting for the Upper Prison Brass patiently and silently to be caught and taken back to Devil’s Island.

What was The Anglican Choir Boy doing for the past several months, you ask? Word in the Devil’s Island co-ed bathhouse has been, because as many inmates do realize at times that talk is cheap, but it is no cheaper when it comes to inmates like Broadcast Betty, who makes her best effort to dish the dirt on the newbie inmates and the repeat offenders!

Broadcast Betty, who is no stranger to dirt than others, perhaps more so in ways unmentionable in some inmate circles, claims that The Anglican Choir Boy, a rather sauve, yet hypnotic inmate was spending several months paying his last respects to fallen comrades of the system, most notably, Va-Va-Voom, who as many remember as a fun-loving Yankee golden boy, who without warning was executed, shocking many of the inmates in and around Devil’s Island. His sudden execution remains a mystery, but some speculate that The Most Holy Father was the man who pulled the lever and ended his life on Devil’s Island.

Broadcast Betty also claims that The Anglican Choir Boy was also spending a lot of time conferring and otherwise hob-knobbing with former Devil’s Island inmates, including Captain Whackencracker, The Pontificating Princess, Danceman Daryl, Gameboy Gerald, Sleepy Hank, The Minister Of Sinister and of course, Old Black Devil, particularly Captain Whackencracker, gaining valuable insight on how to keep well-hidden from the public eye, despite having familiar features, in which case anyone could recognize him on the streets.

The Anglican Choir Boy did his best to keep his mouth shut, for anytime he opened his mouth, an old familiar strain of melodic chords would float from his throat, curl around his tongue and almost anyone anywhere in the world could easily pick him out of a crowd!

That was the way he committed his crimes to begin with before he originally landed on Devil’s Island.

Whenever he held up an entire sisterhood or brotherhood meetinghouse of multi-denominations or mugged several ministers, priests, archbishops, rabbis and other church leaders in a successive row, he would sing an eerie, yet beautifully melodic tune that would leave his victims spellbound, speechless and in a dazzling hypnotic trance.

By that time, The Anglican Choir Boy would make off with the church and/or synagogue collection plate and/or envelope proceeds and dump them into several Swiss bank accounts and live his secret life as a saintly choir boy in a local church not far from where he dwelled.

Seems that the best of his intentions caught up with him one day when he was performing along with the rest of his choir at Devil’s Island at a mock inmate slave auction benefit one night.

Back in the day, when Devil’s Island inmates weren’t in tune with the rest of the population, certain members of the population were summoned into secret rooms, arranged by Upper Prison Brass, The Most Holy Father and Gameboy Gerald.

In order to raise funds to upkeep the appearance of Devil’s Island, so it wouldn’t be labeled as an inhumane prison system by the likes of The Red Cross and Amnesty International, Upper Prison Brass, The Most Holy Father & Gameboy Gerald would arrange massive public benefits, inviting common ordinary folk in for prison tours, similar to the now shuttered Alcatraz prison in San Francisco, California, dinners and plays and talent productions put together by both inmates and outside entertainment brought in from outside.

One of those groups brought in from the outside to perform was none other than the famous Oscar Snow Singers, who featured none other than The Anglican Choir Boy on several solos. The chosen inmates would seem to always have a great time at these get-togethers, despite the presence of the higher authority in close proximity.

Among those in attendance the night that the Oscar Snow Singers were performing were none other than Priestess Paulette, Matterhorn Melissa and Brimstone Bettina, who immediately recognized The Anglican Choir Boy and started shouting religious phrases toward him, loudly telling him to repent for his ungodly sins.

Just as Upper Prison Brass was about to eject the trio, when The Most Holy Father recognized The Anglican Choir Boy, grabbed him and threw him into solitary confinement for several months until he felt it was safe enough to put him back into the prison population. You never know who will pop up on Devil’s Island next! And now you know the rest of the story!