Trump always makes the nuisance he’s an idiot!

Careful: a tarriffied economy will often sink into depression.

You Midas well call him King Anus since everything he touches turns to shit.

A scoundrel’s Hope lies in deception until he’s caught.

Give him enough rope and he’ll make his own news to hang himself with.

Hey Kushner! Jaready to follow in your father’s footsteps?

I’m waiting for Mueller to release his own memo: “After Nunes. Time for arrest.”

Democracy: Fighting for what’s right, while holding onto what’s left.

A no-good heel without any sole should always be shoed-away.

“There’s no such thing as evolution!” claimed the monkey’s uncle.

You don’t know what you don’t know, you know.

Science informs, silence conforms.

I have no comment, and you can quote me on that.

Nowadays those who are modest are old-fashioned.

I wish I wasn’t so humble so I could be greatful.

What do men want from women? Go figure!

More lessons lessen morons.



The Presidon’t no nuthin!

Am I nuts, or have we become a democrazy?

Never put your ass on the line for someone you can’t take seriously.

Trump makes me laugh so hard I cry!

Falsifiers burn their bridges in front of themselves.

Mid-term elections might just lead to a GOP “down” fall.

It’s always up to nervous people because they never calm down.

The masochist his torturer lovingly.

Follow yourself on Twitter and you’ll never get lost.

Take heart: Behind every gray cloud a blue sky awaits.

What did the astronaut say to Mother Earth from outer space? “See you ’round!”

Spring has sprung, and I’m not dandelion!

How do cows feel after milking? Udderly exhausted!

During his retirement King Arthur often reminisced about the good old days and Knights.

Where does inspiration come from, and more importantly, where has it gone and why?

The best things in life are free, and if you don’t like it, get your money back!

Keep on standing tall, in a resiSTANCE!



In an alternate universe not terribly far away but terribly far off, the President was worried.

“I’m worried,” he confided to his chief-of-staff, “and I’m worried that people will find out that I’m worried. And then they’ll try to make me look bad!”

“I don’t think they’ll do that, sir.”

“Oh yes they will! They always do!”

“Yes sir.”

“They’re jealous of me!”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m a very intelligent person, you know.”

“I know.”

“I know all the right words and everything.”

“Yes sir.”

“My intelligence is very intellectual.”

“I know.”

“One of the great memories of all time!”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you think I should challenge them to an IQ contest?”

“Well, I don’t know about that, Mr. President…”

The President eyed him suspiciously. “Whose side are you on anyway? You’re supposed to be my chief-of-stuff!”

“That’s chief-of-staff.”

“Huh? Are you sure about that?”

“Pretty sure.”

“You’re not making that up?”

“No sir.”

“Well then,” the President said, being the quick thinker he is, “quit trying to make me look bad, and summon my chief-of-stuff!”

“You don’t have one.”

“I don’t?”

“No sir.”


“Yes sir.”

The President shook his head in disgust. “Damn it!” he cursed, “No wonder I can’t get anything done around here!”

“Yes sir.”

There was a short silence.

“Wait a minute!” the President said suddenly, “Maybe I’m onto something here! Did Obama have a chief-of-stuff? Or Clinton?”

“No sir.”

The President’s mind raced backwards at the speed of light.

“And what about Bush?”

“As far as I know, sir, no President has ever had a chief-of-stuff.”

“Well, there you go!” the great man proclaimed, “No wonder this country’s in such a poor state!”

“Yes sir.”

“And it took a super-genius like me to figure that one out!”

“I know.”

“Okay then. From now on you’re no longer my chief-of-staff, you’re my chief-of-stuff!”

“Yes sir. Thank-you sir.”

“Because that’ll fix everything. I like to fix things.”

“Yes sir.”

Another short silence followed.

“Well?” the President demanded with an icy glare, “Are you going to congratulate me or what?”

“I was just about to. Um, good one, sir. Congratulations.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m very modest.”

“Yes sir.”

“It’s one of my best qualities.”

“I know.”

“Just be sure to tell Fox news so they can prove to all loyal Americans that I have a very good brain. One of the great memories of all time!”

“Yes sir.”

“So where were we?”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“There you go again! If you can’t say where we were before, how can you find out where we are later on like right now?”

“We’re right here, sir.”

“But that’s what I’m talking about! Where is ‘right here’?”

“In the Oval Office, sir.”

“The Oval Office?”

“Yes sir.”

The President chuckled arrogantly. “You moron!” he sneered, “It’s the Opal Office, not the Oval Office! Because it’s shaped like an opal. Melania will back me up on that because she’s got her own line of jewelry.”

“Actually, sir, that’s a common mistake everyone makes. It’s really called the Oval Office because it’s shaped like an oval.”

“You must mean an oval opal.”

“Yes sir, that’s right.”

“Well… maybe nowadays. But just don’t contradict me anymore!”

“No sir, I mean yes sir!”

“It really is tremendously rude!”

“I know, sir.”


“I mean yes sir!”

“That’s better. You know, I used to drink Ovaltine as a kid. One of the great memories of all time!”

“Yes sir.”

“I’ve also got a pornographic memory, you know.”

“I know. We paid her off.”

“You did?”

“Yes sir. We got the money out of your official campaign slut fund.”

“Good. Nobody has more respect for women than me. Nobody!”

“Yes sir.”

The President’s brow darkened.

“And how do those damn bitches pay me back? Whining about this and that and trying to make me look bad! Then I’m nice enough to offer to pay them off, but do they take my money and thank me like any decent normal person should? No! They’re just a bunch of greedy-ass, loud-mouthed, stuck-up whores, if you ask me!”

“Yes sir.”

“And you know how whores are. It takes one to know one.”

“I know.”

“Maybe I should sue them!”

“You already did.”

“Then I’ll challenge them to an IQ contest!”

“You are very smart.”

“That’s because I comprehend stuff very well, better than almost anybody. I’m like a smart person.”

“I know.”

“One of the great memories of all time! Have I told you that before?”

“Yes sir.”

“I thought so. Did you know that IQ stands for inquisition quiz?”

“No sir.”


“I mean yes sir, I see!”

“IC? No, you idiot, not IC, IQ! How will you ever learn from my wisdom if you don’t pay attention?”

“Sorry, Mr. President. You’re right as usual.”

“I’m surrounded by idiots!”

“Yes sir.”

“Anyway, I’m worried. And I’m worried about this whole Russia business, too. Because every time I try to fix it someone else messes things up! And it’s no good for our democracy because I’m the one who was elected, which means I’m the only one who counts! So I get to make the rules because America loves a winner and I’m a winner! The one who won the big one!”

“Yes sir.”

“One of the great memories of all time!”

“I know.”

“So this special prosecutor, can I sue him?”

“I don’t think so, sir. And I don’t think it would be a good idea to challenge him to an IQ contest, either.”


“What you should probably do is tell him that Russia has absolutely no influence over you, and that you’ve had very little contact with Putin.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Vlad doesn’t want me bringing his name up.”


“He said I could call him that, but only in private. In front of everyone else it’s Mr. Putin. He doesn’t want to get involved in US politics, you know. And I don’t blame him!”

“I see.”

“So now I figure I’ll just tell this special prosecutor joker that I don’t remember any of that Russia stuff that never happened during the election which I won without any help from all those Russians who didn’t help me.”

“I think that would be smart.”

“I told you I’ve got a big brain. One of the great memories of all time!”

“I know. But in the meantime it might be helpful to create some sort of diversion.”

“In the meantime, hmm… I like the sound of that! In the meantime tell me what you mean ‘in the meantime’.”

“Well, for starters maybe we could do something for Puerto Rico.”

“Puerto Rico? But I already brought them paper towels and everything! What more do they want, for crying out loud?!”

“It would be a very smart public relations ploy to promise them additional aid. And it would definitely make you look good.”

“Well I’m not buying it, and unless I’m not mistaken Puerto Rico is Spain’s problem anyway!”

“Yes sir, Mr. President.”

“When they build that wall, then we can make a deal!”

“Yes sir.”

“But I do like your diversion angle. It’s the kind of honest, straight-forward deception I’ve always preferred. I’m really just a simple-minded kind of guy.”

“I know.”

“Anyway, me and myself have been cooking up some of our own diversion scenarios, and I hope you notice that I’m using lots of really big tremendous words.”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Anyway, one of our best scenarios, one of mine actually, unless it turns out to be a bad idea, is that I was born with an evil identical twin black-sheep brother who was no good. He was almost exactly the same as me, but my hair was way nicer. That’s why my parents were so ashamed of him that they had to keep him secretly locked-up in the Bronx Zoo. With the baboons. He blended in perfectly and even became their leader, until one day he slipped out on a banana peel and escaped. He became jealous of me, just like everyone else, so one time he put knock-out pills in my Captain Krunch cereal. Then he tied me up and went out and colluded with Russia to make me look bad. Luckily, I escaped with karate and chased him all the way to Hawaii where I challenged him to an inquisition quiz contest. But he cheated by memorizing facts and stuff, so I punched him very tremendously right in the face and he fell down into some quicksand and disappeared forever. The end. I think that covers all the bases. What do you think?”

“Well sir, Mr. President sir, I’m not sure your story is all that believable.”

“Why do people keep saying that to me? Can’t they understand the pressures I face every day, and the tough decisions I have to make? Mar-a-lago or the Bedminster golf club? Cherries-Jubilee or Chocolate Mousse? It’s not easy, you know!”

“I know, sir. Maybe we should take a break for a few minutes.”

“Now that you mention it, I am tremendously hungry! All this executive thinking is very, very hard work!”

“Yes sir.”

“I think I’ll order a sandwich.”

“Good thinking, sir.”

“Well, you know what they say: An army brunches on it’s stomach!”

“Sir! If you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing?”

“Using the room service button to order my sandwich, dumb ass, what do you think?”

“But sir! That’s not a room service button! It’s the doomsday button!!”

“Nonsense!” the President barked, “I’ve lived in hotels for years so I’m a expert on room service. And believe me, this is a room service button!”

And because the President didn’t want to be contradicted anymore, it was.











Americans beware: Putin’s PAC in town, and on the attack once again!

For God’s sake, Republicans, your country’s under attack! Wake-up and smell the borscht!

The Russians have gotten almost as good at dividing US with propaganda as Fox news.

We’re under attack and led by a quack. Duck, Donald!

Clearly Trump has put the “mock” back in demockracy.

What a temper! Mental fool he is!

Careful, Mr. President. You can jump  on an executive priviLEDGE, but you might also fall off of it.

I’m not twisting your words, your words are twisting others!

When Republicans “fix” the budget, it’s an elementary deduction that schoolchildren will suffer.

Gridlock: Democracy inaction.

If you think that love is an illusion you just don’t believe in magic.

God bless us all, including those I wish would drop dead.

A fool in paradise will always seek greener pastures.

To find yourself, first check your GPS!

Inquizative minds want to know… Game shows!

People who live in glass houses shouldn’t get stoned because eventually they’ll crash.

Don’t love talking, talk loving!


Tanks a lot Wall Street anD ow Jones that really hurt!

Trump is inclined to general lies about everything.

Falsifires shed no light; they only cast shadows.

How can you make a case if you haven’t got a clue?

Careful! The prelude to mass-destruction has often been mass-distraction.

We need to observe a ban on hate, not a Bannon hate.

That lunatics me off!

Where does ego maniac? Crazy, man, crazy!

And the angry man livid unhappily ever after.

Trump loves the poor, no? Yes!

Will a pay-off lead to Stormy whether or not?

When the blind lead the blind it’s a dark day indeed!

Never bring a knife to a gunfight, unless you’ve cornered the market on bullets.

You can count on a census every ten years.

Never trust a headhunter who offers you a free haircut.

Dan Druff is a flake!

Resist, one voice at a time and all in unison.


Hey kid,

Congratulations on your recent millions of dollars jackpot win! You’ll be relieved to know that I’m not writing in order to “get” anything from you, as I’m sure that by now you’ve had your bellyful of various sales-pitches, investment schemes and hard-luck stories. And let me tell you it really burns me up that people would try to take advantage of a good kid like you and your good-naturedness. So I’m writing to warn you not to trust anyone, unless they’re not asking for anything in the same way that I’m not asking for anything neither. And believe you me, I’d just love to take a good “swipe” at all those jerks who are like that and always looking for a handout from good folks like you and me for crying out loud! And what really rattles my cage is that I’ve heard my fair share of horror stories about those poor super-jackpot lottery winners who were tricked out of their winnings in no time flat by low-down, no-good,  blood-sucking parasites masquerading as human beings. And I would really hate to see that happen to such a smart, good-looking kid like you, or whatever. So if you like I’m offering, for absolutely no charge, to hold onto a million of your dollars for you (and please notice I specifically said “your dollars”, which proves I’m on the level) just in case you might befall some such misfortune so as to lose all of your money. Of course there would be some normal operating expenses incurred, but it would be well worth it for you to have the peace of mind of knowing you won’t end-up working at “Hamburger Emporium Yum” or some shit like that! Anyway, it’s just a thought so let me know because, honestly, I’m actually just a really nice normal good guy you can completely trust, extending my helping hand in your direction.

In sincerity,

Your Boniface Champion and Fellow Chum Me



Republicans capital lies on “trickle-down” economics once again.

As the rich get richer, the middle-class becomes more and more “poor us”!

The reason conservatives believe so strongly in “personal responsibility” is because they’re so good at helping themselves.

I think Fox News would attract more liberal viewers if only they’d add a laugh-track.

I long for the “good old days”, when the lunatic fringe was obscene but not heard.

Over and over the Republicans relie on Fox News.

It’s a democracy, so shut up and deal, or shut down and squeal!

Blowhard on your own trump’, Donald, when Mueller comes calling.

Beware: An asshole who claims to have good scents in reality is a stinker who’s full of shit!

It takes a really big “hole” to bury an elephant.

The unfortunate last words of the missionary to the cannibal: “Meet me for lunch.”

“Do you have any experience?” the cowboy applying for a demolition job was asked. “I wreckin’ so,” he replied.

Why does Mr. Peanut walk with a cane? Because he’s got planters fasciitis.

My horoscope came true. Astrology whiz!

Every religion believes it’s rite.

Careful! If you make a mountain out of a molehill you may never get over it.

The pen is mightier than the sword, unless it’s out of ink.



“I do know a recreation that’s like the one Daddy is talking about!” Mommy stated, making both boys wish to know the game a lot, “It’s known as: ‘What is the neatest thing about God?’ and every one of us has to provide you with one really great point we like about God. Who desires to go first?”

Lee and Larry jumped and shouted: “ME! ME!” waving their arms in the air like they do at school. They both actually started hovering.

Finally, Mommy mentioned: “Properly, Lee, since you might be two minutes older than Larry, you’ll be able to go first!”

“Goody goody goody!” said Lee, “The neatest thing I like about God is that He created girl bosoms!”

“Oh boy oh boy!” said Larry, “I’m an ass man myself so I guess the neatest thing I like about God is internet porn!”

“Boys, boys!” scolded Mommy, “You’re missing the whole point of our game! You see, God loves us more than everyone else because our shit doesn’t stink! And the neatest thing you should like about God is that He created Hell for everyone else who’s not like us so we won’t have to tolerate them and all their weirdo shithole friends!”

“Thank-you God!” said Lee.

“Amen!” added Larry.

“Oh well,” sighed God, shaking His head sadly,  “better luck next time…”

For as always, God had the last word.


Blackheart Bart was furious! His bad-guy gang of outlaws and desperados were nowhere to be seen and, as if that wasn’t enough, the saloon was all out of diet Fresca.

“Dang it!” Blackheart Bart exclaimed, “Where in the blazes are they?!”

Mort Short, his cohort, tried to reassure him. “Probably back at the Fresca factory.” he replied.

“Doggone it, you knucklehead!” Blackheart Bart roared, “I was talking about our bad-guy gang of outlaws and desperados! We’ll need them to help us fight off the lawless vigilante posse that I heard was being assembled to hunt us down!”

“I know,” Mort replied, “What a bummer!”

“So where are they?” Blackheart Bart demanded.

“I just heard they’re being assembled to hunt us down.”

“Not the vigilante posse, you idiot!” snapped Blackheart Bart, “Our bad-guy gang of outlaws and desperados!”

“Oh, um, well,” Mort stammered, “I suppose they should be showing up soon. Anytime now I would think, in fact.”

“They were supposed to be here at noon, and it’s almost twelve-thirty now!” Blackheart Bart fumed. He looked suspiciously at Mort. “Are you sure, absolutely sure, that you sent them the message exactly as I worded it?”

Though an outlaw and a desperado himself, Mort Short’s feelings were hurt. “Sure I’m sure!” he affirmed in an assertive yet whiney nasal tone, “‘Twelve o’clock noon at the saloon’.”

“That’s the message all right.” Blackheart Bart admitted. He was puzzled. Sure his bad-guy gang of outlaws and desperados were a bunch of cheating, lying, shiftless, thieving, no-good sneaks and cut-throats, but they were always very punctual. It was one of the things he appreciated most about them.

Mort Short was still a bit miffed. “I may be a sniveling, back-stabbing rat-faced little weasel who’s no better than a snake in the grass,” he proclaimed, “but I do have my pride!”

“Okay! Okay!” said Blackheart Bart, “Make like a sheriff and give it a rest!”

But Mort Short wasn’t one to give up when he could run, and neither was his mouth. “I wrote the message down right here!” he continued, pulling out an official-looking piece of paper, “‘Twelve o’clock noon at the saloon’. See? Right there!”

And with that final pronouncement he waved the telegraph office paper right under Blackheart Bart’s nose. Which perhaps he shouldn’t have.

“Wait just a dang minute!” Blackheart Bart said suddenly. His eye had caught sight of something that didn’t seem quite right. Snatching the paper from Mort Short’s grasp, he examined it more closely.

“Doggone it!” he finally exploded, “You spelt it wrong, you dang chucklehead!”

“Huh?” asked Mort.

“You spelt it wrong! No wonder they’re not here!”


“Twelve o’clock noon at the salon! That’s what you wrote! At the salon!”

“What’s a salon?” Mort asked.

Blackheart Bart thought quickly. “It must be that new-fangled place that just opened up down the street. They call it the ‘Bouquet Corral’.”

“I thought that was some kind of tropical reef in the Carribbean.”

“Dang it, Mort! There you go again with your sloppy spelling!”

“Well then,” said Mort, anxious to change the subject, “I reckon we’d better just mosey on over there directly.”

“Mosey, hell!” Blackheart Bart retorted, “We’ll damn well skedaddle all the way, and I just hope to God that we’re not too late!”

“Jeepers!” said Mort.


In the meantime, a large group of heavily-armed vigilantes were closing in on their quarry. They were led by a colorful old mountain-man tracker named Chris Lee Adams. Chris Lee Adams was quite a character in his own right, and had lived an extraordinary life. As a young man he had gone to the mountains to find himself, but then he got lost. He was discovered ten years later by Japanese tourists on holiday, who returned him to the pick-up window at Fort Toogo. But he had difficulty adjusting to modern nineteenth-century life, and while on a shopping expedition to Mallsville he got lost again. Another ten years would pass before he was found, this time by teenage valley girls who, on a dare, returned him to the mountains once more and told him to “like, get lost”. This he promptly did, but fortunately he was taken in by a family of Care Bears who raised him as their own, teaching him vital hunting and tracking skills, as well as modern interpretative dance. Those were the happiest years of his life, and he might never have left that wilderness paradise if he hadn’t gotten sick and tired of all that porridge. But leave he finally did, in the middle of hibernation season when it’s difficult to get a date anyway, and he  returned to civilization to become a much sought-after  grizzled old mountain-man tracker and dance instructor.

At the moment he was sniffing the ground on all fours, with his backside raised high in the air. He took a handful of dirt and poured it into one of his ears, then rolled over onto his back.

“Does he have to do all that?” asked Janus Theanus, sponsor of the expedition. He was aptly named.

“His methods may seem unconventional, but they’re effective,” answered Hunter Bounty. He would later go on to invent the paper towel.

“He was taught these tricks by the bears themselves,” added Yappy Pappy Sappy, “I also hear he once spent a lost weekend with some wild and crazy dogs.”

“So what’s he doing now?” Janus Theanus wondered.

“He wants you to rub his tummy,” Hunter Bounty explained.

“I’m not going to rub his tummy!”

“Oh come on,” said Yappy Pappy Sappy, “What harm could it do?”

“That’s right,” agreed Hunter Bounty, “Besides, he might get mean if you don’t.”

“This is ridiculous!” complained Janus Theanus.

Suddenly Chris Lee Adams sat straight up and began dragging his buttocks along the ground. It was a special canine technique he had learned from those wild and crazy Wisenheimer dogs, and resembled the sight of a dog with an itch it couldn’t quite reach pulling itself across the carpet.

“Yup,” he said, “They’re close by. I can feel it.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” urged Janus Theanus, “Let’s go!”

“Not until you rub my tummy!” Chris Lee Adams stubbornly insisted.

Janus Theanus rolled his eyes heavenward. “Oh, for crying out loud!” he cried out loud.


When Blackheart Bart and Mort Short arrived at the “Bouquet Corral” it was almost one o’clock. They were greeted at the door by a wiry old geezer dressed in an apron and wearing a French beret. He looked them up and down with a critical eye.

“May I help you ‘gentlemen’?” he enquired.

“You’d better just hope so, bub!” Blackheart Bart warned him, “I’m Blackheart Bart, this is Mort Short, and we’re here looking for our bad-guy gang of outlaws and desperados!”

“I see,” said the old man, “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I don’t have no dang appointment!” Blackheart Bart bellowed.

“Well, there’s no reason to get snippy about it, sir. We do accept walk-ins.”

“Say,” Mort Short interjected, “haven’t I seen you around somewhere before?”

“Probably down at the ‘Rusty Spoon’,” the old man replied, “I used to be the cook there. Name’s Vittles.”

“That’s right!” Mort Short agreed, “Now I remember you. Your tuna casserole is out of this world!”

Vittles blushed. “Gee thanks,” he said, “It’s always nice to be appreciated.”

“So what are you doing here?” Mort inquired, “Is this your place?”

“Sure is!” Vittles acknowledged proudly, “The only full-service hair salon within a thousand miles! When fashion-consciousness finally makes it’s way west I’ll be ready!”

“On the cutting edge, I guess,” Mort observed wryly.

“That’s right!” Vittles continued, “You’d be surprised at how much good grooming and proper personal hygiene can add to your overall quality of life. Sometimes a stylish haircut and the right color-coordinated outfit is just what you need to give you that small but decisive edge in a free-for-all shootout or gun-fighting showdown.”

“Dang it!” thundered Blackheart Bart, “Just answer my doggone question! Have you seen my bad-guy gang of outlaws and desperados or not?!”

Vittles blinked twice, then scratched himself where the sun don’t shine. “I ain’t seen no one all morning,” he replied, “but I was busy giving the sheriff a rinse and a perm. But my assistants may have seen them. Trevor! Leonardo! Raphael!”

The three assistants appeared from another room.

“Yes, boss?” answered the one named Trevor.

“This here is Blackheart Bart and his cohort Mort Short,” Vittles explained, “They’re looking for their bad-guy gang of outlaws and desperados. Any of you boys seen ’em?”

The three assistants exchanged glances back and forth.

“No sir,” said Trevor.

“Me neither,” added Leonardo.

“I suppose not,” agreed Raphael.

But there was something strange in the demeanor of the three assistants, as if they were holding back on some kind of inside joke.

“Say,” said Mort quizzically, “haven’t I seen you fellas around somewhere before?”

Suddenly the dam burst, and the trio broke out into unabashed laughter.

“You guys!” exclaimed Mort, suddenly realizing the true identity of the three.

“Zeke? Scully? Rattler?” asked Blackheart Bart incredulously, “Is it really you?”

“That’s right, boss,” said Zeke, aka Trevor.

Blackheart Bart was dumbfounded. It was indeed his bad-guy gang of outlaws and desperados, only all clean and gussied-up, like Sunday morning church-going folk.

“Vittles here gave us complete makeovers,” explained Scully, also known as Leonardo, “and he’s offered to take on all three of us as assistants.”

“And if everything works out, we’ll each get our own franchise!” added Rattler, aka Raphael.

“But you’re outlaws!” Blackheart Bart was quick to point out, “And desperados!”

“That may be,” answered Zeke, “but the main reason we became outlaws is because we weren’t good for anything else.”

“That’s right,” agreed Scully, “and the reason we were so desperate in the first place was because we couldn’t do a thing with our hair. But now that’s all changed!”

“I see,” said Blackheart Bart, “And you, Rattler?”

“From this day forward I will no longer steal locks, I will style them!” Rattler vowed solemnly. He had always been the poet of the group.

Blackheart Bart knew he was running out of options.

“Didn’t Mort tell you a big posse was after us?” he asked in desperation.

“No,” Zeke replied, “not a posse.”

Blackheart Bart pulled out the telegraph office paper and looked it over once again. “Dang it, Mort!” he yelled, “You and your sloppy spelling!”

“Oops,” said Mort.

An uncomfortable silence followed.

“Well,” Blackheart Bart finally said, in a fatalistic manner, “I’ve never been one to get in the way of a man bettering himself. I guess me and Mort will just have to live out the rest of our lives as hunted fugitives, always on the run, never having any peace of mind, and always looking back over our shoulders.”

“Oh well,” said Scully, philosopher of the gang, “That’s the way the cookie crumbles.”

“Perhaps not,” proposed Vittles, “There may be a better way…”


Back at the vigilante camp, Janus Theanus had finally relented and agreed to scratch Chris Lee Adams’ tummy. Unfortunately, when he did so he located himself in just such a position that when he hit the mountain-man’s abdominal “sweet spot” the resulting involuntary kick of Chris Lee Adams’ foot found it’s way directly to Janus Theanus’ family jewels. Later, when the swelling had subsided to the size of a grapefruit, the posse was once again back on track, and it wasn’t long before they found themselves outside the front entrance of the “Bouquet Corral”.

“Yup,” stated Chris Lee Adams, “that’s where the trail leads, alright. Right in there.”

Janus Theanus pounded on the door. “We know you’re in there, Blackheart Bart!” he shouted, “Come up with your hands out!” This was his first posse, so he was a little bit nervous and somewhat clumsy.

An old man in a French beret stuck his head out the door. “May I help you gentlemen?” he asked.

“Name’s Janus Theanus and me and my lawless vigilante posse are here looking for Blackheart Bart and his bad-guy gang of outlaws and desperados!”

“Do you have an appointment?” Vittles queried.

Hunter Bounty was the first to respond. “No sir, we don’t,” he replied, “but I’ve got a coupon good for a free rinse with every perm.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Vittles, “that’s been our most popular special all week long.”

“Look here!” growled Janus Theanus threateningly, “Are you going to cooperate, or do we have to blast our way in?”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Vittles, prudently moving out of the way.

The posse burst on through the door with guns drawn and hammers cocked. Once inside, however, all they saw was an old lady and her daughter being attended to by three dandified city-slicker hair stylists. The old lady was just about the ugliest woman any of them had ever seen, although her daughter was kind of attractive in a rat-faced weasel type of way.

“The trail leads over there!” said Chris Lee Adams, pointing to a rear window.

“Of course,” declared Yappy Pappy Sappy, “the old back window ploy!”

“Come on men,” exhorted Janus Theanus, “Let’s get after them!”

“Does this mean I don’t get my free rinse and perm?” asked Hunter Bounty.

Janus Theanus looked at him coldly. “What do you think?”

“Oh, fiddlesticks!” Hunter Bounty replied.



Janus Theanus and his lawless vigilante posse continued to follow the “trail” of Blackheart Bart for the next three and a half years. Unbeknownst to them, what they were really following was the scent of Blackheart Bart and Mort Short’s bad-guy cowboy outfits, which Vittles had Pony Expressmailed all the way out to Death Valley for dry cleaning. During this time, Chris Lee Adams was the first one to utter the now-famous phrase: “I’m really dragging ass today!”

Vittles, through hard work and mental illness, turned the “Bouquet Corral” into the most popular and successful full-service hair salon within a thousand miles. His full name, as it turned out,  was Vittles Sassoon, and he was none other than the great-granddaddy of you-know-who.

As for Blackheart Bart and Mort Short they of course rode off into the sunset. Unfortunately, however, they were blinded by the glare of the sun, which caused them to fall into the Grand Canyon.

But that, pardners, is a “hole” ‘nuther story.




Zero tolerance for predators, and no Moore excuses!

It’s all about respect. No woman should have to feel squeasy.

The GOP tax plan: Serving the middle class… on a platter, as usual.

They’re great at running things. Into the ground!

Mexico won’t peso. What now?

Perhaps Trump’s scheme is to screw things up so much here that Mexico is the one who decides to build a wall!

Trump often exhibits temper rally insanity.

Hateful people are always lost in contempt-plation.

Fantasy colliding with reality is like a bug colliding with a windshield.

Beware the true believer whose grasp of reality is unrealing.

To avoid bad news, kill the messenger before he arrives.

Get a clue National Security, and finger Prince.

The hungrier you are, the better food tastes.

Insomniacs can only dream of sleep.

Live your life or die trying.

“Why the long face?” I asked the horse. “Because whoa is me,” he replied.

‘Tis the season for giving, forgiving is divine.