“It always starts out the same. It’s a beautiful day and I’m on the beach. I’m just relaxing, soaking up some sunshine and checking out the babes, and it’s all good. And I notice these two girls in particular who are really giving me the eye. One of them is a beautiful, well-built redhead in a skimpy little red and white polka-dot bikini. The other is a bit younger, also with red hair, and dressed in an equally revealing blue and white polka-dot bikini. And like I said, they’re both giving me the eye and sending out all the right signals.”

The doctor licked his lips in anticipation. He knew it was about to get interesting.

“Are they sisters?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“But they both have red hair.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you have a thing for redheads?”

“Well, I do love Lucy.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, the first one, with the red polka-dots, gives me this big smile while at the same time the other one starts singing. Then they both start dancing for me in the most exotic and erotic manner I’ve ever seen. And I can’t take my eyes off of them, nor do I want to! It’s as if I’m under some kind of hypnotic spell.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Oddly enough, it makes me thirsty.”


“Yes. For a cold, delicious beverage of some sort. It is, after all, a hot day.”

“And so are the girls.”

“That’s right. Then, as if on cue, red polka-dot bikini girl offers me an ice-cold, refreshing bottle of cola.”

“And of course you take it.”

“Well I try to, but before I can grab it blue polka-dot bikini girl hits me over the head with her own bottle of cola and insists that I drink it instead. This infuriates red polka-dot bikini girl who tells me I better drink hers’ or else! Soon they’re both beating me mercilessly with their soda bottles.”

“And how does this make you feel? Hurt? Angry? Confused?”

“Actually, it kind of turns me on. So I say: ‘You seem like a couple of nice girls. How about a threesome?'”

“You said that?”

“Well it is, after all, my dream.”

“And then what happens?”

“They both become convulsed with rage and start ripping the very flesh from my bones, which is when I decide to make a break for it. And after a wild, madcap chase across the sand I find myself hiding out behind this bar called the Kit-Kat Club. There I am, dripping blood, pouring out sweat and barely able to catch my breath, but none of that seems to matter to me anymore. The main thing is I’m thirstier than ever, and come hell or high water I’m going to get myself a cold, delicious beverage!”

“I see.”

“Just about then this short little guy shows up dressed up in a loud Hawaiian shirt and wearing this very strange-looking hat. He’s just about the silliest-looking son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever seen, but there’s a saint-like expression on his face which makes me trust him completely. Then, like an angel of mercy, he holds out a tall, cold, refreshing glass of fruit juice and asks me if I’d like a nice Hawaiian punch. Well, by this time I’m thirstier than the leading paper towel so I say: ‘Sure I would!’ But then, BAM, without any warning or provocation he sucker punches me with a vicious right hook and down I go.”

“And how does this make you feel? Victimized? Betrayed? Exploited?”

“Not really. For some reason I feel like I deserve it. Then this other fellow comes over, and at first I’m afraid he’s going to offer me something to drink as well because at this point I’m so thirsty I could hardly refuse. But he just smiles and hands me a potato chip.”

“A potato chip?”

“That’s right. And not just any potato chip. It’s the most wondrous potato chip ever known and the most beautiful and perfect potato chip ever created!”

“I once heard about a piece of cake like that, but I couldn’t believe it.”

“Well, you can believe this. So I eat it up and it’s the most incredibly delicious taste-treat I’ve ever experienced! It’s the crispiest, crunchiest, yummiest potato chip ever conceived and my entire being tingles with exquisite ecstasy as I become one with the chip. And at that very moment I have a breakthrough revelation which leads me to a whole new level of understanding about myself and my purpose in life.”

“And what is that?”

“I realize that if I’m ever to be happy I must achieve balance in my life, and therefore I need not only a thirst-quenching beverage, but a delicious, lip-smacking snack as well.”

“I see. Then what happens?”

“I ask potato chip man for another chip, but he just laughs and says: ‘Nobody can just eat one!’ Then, as if to spite me, he starts dancing around and singing this song about how his potato chips are so good that nobody can just eat one. And a bunch of his friends come over and start singing and dancing and carrying on as well. So I ask them if I could please have another chip, but they just laugh at me and say: ‘Nobody can just eat one!'”

“And how does this make you feel?”

“Like a nobody.”

“Please continue.”

“Well, after about thirty seconds they all just disappear, but then  I notice that one of them had dropped a potato chip onto the ground during their dance. So I reach down to pick it up, but when I do it suddenly sprouts arms and legs and runs away from me.  ‘Damn it, potato chip,’ I say, ‘get back here!’ But the potato chip just laughs and calls me a jackass, which really pisses me off.  So I chase after it because now it’s a matter of principal, and I’ll be damned if any wise-cracking potato chip is gonna make a monkey out of me!  Because above all, I must defend my dignity and maintain my honor.”

“Of course.”

“So off I go, scampering after it on all fours, but before I can catch-up it darts into the front entrance of the Kit-Kat Club.”

“The bar you mentioned earlier.”

“That’s right. Now the Kit-Kat Club is a very exclusive establishment, and everyone there is either young or beautiful or rich or some sort of celebrity. So I’m trying to fit in without drawing too much attention to myself, but I’m still determined to catch that smart-ass potato chip. And I notice this little guy in the corner trying to pass himself off as a miniature tortilla visiting from out of town. So I say: ‘Hey you!’ and he says: ‘No speaka the English.’ But then his moustache falls off and I realize that he’s really the potato chip in a diabolically clever disguise. So I say: ‘Nice try, wiseguy, but now I’ve got you!’ to which he replies with an unflattering string of vile profanities. And just as I’m about to grab that foul-mouthed little chip to finish him off, this dog comes pouncing in from out of nowhere and devours him with one quick gulp.”

“A dog?”

“Yes. So I say: ‘Hey dog! That was my potato chip!’ But the dog just licks his  balls and says: ‘If it’s on the floor it’s within my jurisdiction. That’s the law.’ And I realize he’s probably right. Then the dog introduces himself to me, and it turns out that he’s none other than Seymour McPisst, the famous super-genius spokesdog from all of those beer commercials back in the day. He also had a short-lived television sitcom about a dog elected to Congress who goes to Washington and poops in the president’s slippers.”

“I think I vaguely remember it.”

“Anyway, he offers to buy me a beer which I readily accept, and he tells me that every one dog year is equal to seven human years. ‘That’s the law,’ he says, ‘so I’ve been able to drink liquor since the age of three.’  ‘Are you some kind of lawyer?’ I ask. ‘Of course I am,’ he replies, ‘You scratch my back and I’ll bite yours!’ He buys several more rounds of drinks, and as he does so he becomes increasingly introspective. He tells me he’s worried that we as a society are becoming more and more like unwitting pawns manipulated by greedy narrow-minded forces uninterested in anything but their own selfish desires. He also worries that young people only hang-out with him for the beer.”

“And what do you think about that?

“Frankly, doc, I really don’t care one way or the other so long as someone else is paying for it. But I don’t have time to dwell on the subject because all of a sudden this squirrel comes crashing in through the window flying some sort of makeshift glider, and it’s just about the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen!  He grabs my box of Nut Clusters breakfast cereal, which I didn’t even realize I had on me, then turns around and  gives me the finger before hauling ass out of there.”

“Do you chase after him?”

“Well, I think about it, but then I figure that any squirrel clever enough to build a hang glider might also be packing heat. But McPisst the dog has no such inhibitions and he goes stumbling off after the squirrel, who’s now using a jet-pack to make his escape. So I’m left alone at the bar, and it isn’t long before people start looking at me funny. Then I notice a foul odor in the air and realize, to my horror, that it’s emanating from my very own armpits. And everyone’s wrinkling their nose in disgust as they look upon me with utter contempt, and the more I try to press my arms against my body the worse it gets. The stench becomes so unbearable that reality itself is repelled from me and I find myself lost in a dark, awful, meaningless void of nothingness.”

“Is it hell?”

“I don’t think so. It’s more like the Republican national convention.”

“Please continue.”

“Well,  I cry out in anguish:  ‘Someone please help me! I’ve got stinky armpits!’, and at that very moment the woman of my dreams appears from out of nowhere and gives me a bottle of magical anti-perspirant. Suddenly I smell wonderful and completely irresistible, and as she smiles seductively at me I ask: ‘Can we make love  now?’ But she doesn’t answer my question, she just laughs and says: ‘You’re dreaming!'”

“And then?”

” And that’s when I wake up, always in a cold, clammy sweat, completely drained and utterly exhausted,  and sobbing like a little baby.”

The doctor considered what he had just heard. “Well,” he finally said, “I’m not sure how it all adds up, but it seems clear that you’re a very sick individual.”

“But can you help me?”

“Perhaps, but it will take some time. I believe you have unresolved issues concerning your perception of reality, which we may be able to address with the proper therapeutic approach.”

“But what can I do in the meantime? Please, doc! I can’t take much more of this! It’s about to drive me crazy!”

“I suggest you try to relax by engaging in some of your favorite pastimes. Do you have any special hobbies or interests?”

“Well, I do like watching TV…”









Liar, liar, Pence on fire!

Politics: One criticize fits all.

If you’re too self-absorbed you better look out!

Cowards never see anything, they just close their eyes.

When good people look the other way, it can only be bad.

Scoundrels always try to confuse critical thought with critical speech.

Arms sales: Profits of Doom.

Where do money-laundering trails lead? Perhaps to a Whitewash House.

The media was about to drive the President crazy! “Are we there, Soviet?” they kept asking.

We need a commander-in-chief, not a demander and thief.

What the impeach meant was: “You’re fired.”

Maybe we’ll be able to see things more clearly in 2020.

Ironic, isn’t it, that the network so concerned about the “liberal media” taking “Christ” out of Christmas is constantly promoting it’s own series “Lucifer”.

Pinheads point to heaven without ever looking up.

What do you get if you cross an accountant with a potato chip? Someone who loves crunching numbers!

If id got loose, where would ego?

Learn to play chess and check with me later.


“And now a word from Reverend Curtis Conway.”

“Friends, I was sitting having a beer with God the other night, when God said to me: ‘Brother Curtis, I’m kind of short. Could I borrow a twenty until next week?’ And I said: ‘Certainly, Lord, but what do you need twenty dollars for?’ And God said to me: ‘Well, Brother Curtis, it’s not cheap trying to run a universe. The upkeep alone is astronomical!’ And we laughed at this. And then God said to me: ‘Brother Curtis, I want you to tell all your friends out there in cyberspace to send you their money. All of their money. And the reason I want them to send you their money is so that you can dress in the finest clothes, eat the finest foods, and live in the finest of dwellings. And the reason I want all this,’ He said to me, ‘is because I want everyone to know that I am the only God, omnipotent and all-knowing. And if anyone should fail to send you their money I will cast them into the outer darkness, where there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth and grumbling.’ Well friends, I told God I’d do the best I could and after showing me a few card tricks He left. Friends, I’m asking you now to send me your money. All of your money. Because He told me to. And remember friends, He knows where you live.”


What do I think the White House should do about all those leaks? Depends.

Real lies what you are told may not be true.

It takes a really tall tale to wag the dog.

To avoid ignorance ignore rants.

So queasy got Comey he had to go homie.

Tyrants never stoP URGING other points of view.

Trump supporters: Bully for you.

Ironic, isn’t it, that those who never want to compromise with others so often compromise themselves.

Only two directions for a scoundrel to go: ‘Fess up or lie down.

The radical right will never be satisfied until there’s nothing left for everyone else.

Democracy: choose your choice or lose your voice.

The abominable snowman’s children were about to drive him crazy! “Are we there Yeti?” they kept asking.

Writer’s block is never closed to pedestrian traffic. I’m not sure what that means, but I couldn’t think of anything else.

What did the scratch say to the match? You’re fired!

What are we here for? For now, of course!

And where are we going? By and bye.

I may lie, but I always make it up to you.


In deceit of power there sits a liar.

When the emperor has no clothes you can anticipate a hasty “cover-up”.

For whaT REASON are they being so evasive?

And, for that matter, what do you get when you cross a TRaitor with a chUMP?

It’s not a “witch” hunt, it’s a “which-rich-son-of-a-bitch” hunt.

PUTINTRUMPGATE: They collude we conclude.

Trumputin’s scheme: concur and divide.

Accuse the media all you want; we know who the real “FAKE” is.

Turn your returns over so we can see what lies beneath.

Warning: Smoking guns may be dangerous to your wealth.

Money is the most destructive addiction, it must be aGREED.

A tax we should all be concerned about: cyber a tax.

Just budge it so the economy can work for everyone.

I nose what I nose, and it’s a pollen!

It’s the earthquake’s fault.

RIP, Chuck Berry, Rock In Paradise.

Time goes bye.


Global warming: the dinosaurs’ revenge.

Soon we might have to call Antarctica Aintarctica.

Instead of a giant wall, let’s encircle the country with a giant mall, and help the economy as well!

Democracy goes bankrupt without a “free” press.

Not surprisingly they prefer “flake” news, as it’s known.

Their lies the answer they want.

Ironic, isn’t it, that it’s always the biggest “drips” that complain loudest about “leaks”.

The scariest tweets are those that go “Trump” in the night.

It’s always darkest before the “Don”, probably because he’s not too bright.

Fellow-Americans beware: Someone’s been RUSSIAN around tryin’ to play US for A SAP ASAP!

Those trapped by their own lies often seek an “escapegoat”.

Conservatives wake up! Put on your big boy Pence and impeach Trump.

An empty mind can only produce echoes.

Closed minds only seize darkness.

Go on a diet if you’ve got nothing too loose.

To feel wanted, imagine everyone is out to get you.

Impunity: What happens when imps get together.


Now we’re seeing Trump’s team putin control.

It seems that the administration has been lying… in bed with the Russians!

A rich oxymoron: Someone with millions of dollars but no sense.

Shit happens, usually around assholes.

It’s bad enough when people jump to conclusions, but when they jump to delusions it becomes downright dangerous!

Those that swagger in often stagger out.

If you’re a strange bad fellow go into politics.

The easiest person to fool is yourself, especially if you voted for Trump.

Ignorance doesn’t know what it doesn’t know, and is damn proud of it!

Greed threw a party but only invited himself.

Please don’t feed the dinosaurs; it only makes them bigger which only makes them hungrier.

A thousand years from now archaeologists will be “excavating” the vast area known as cyberspace.

I was struck by the way he hit me.

I was on the golf course, fore-crying out loud.

A mime is an oxymoron for crying out loud.

Gay men are often more successful than straight men, probably because they feel compelled to succeed.

How did the rabbi fix his coffee? He brew it!


I had just returned from assignment in Antarctica, trying to answer the age-old question: “Why are there no ants there?” It is called ANTarctica after all, and not MOSQUITOarctica or even POLARBEARarctica. But it turns out that the reason there are no ants there is for the same reason that there are no mosquitos there, and that’s because no one makes overcoats small enough to fit them. Besides, Eskimos hardly ever have picnics, except on National Picnic Day, which only comes once a year, and we all know how terrible ants are at planning that far ahead. They don’t even have calendars, for crying out loud! But happy National Picnic Day anyway! Last year I got a chicken-salad sandwich and several pieces of twine, and I don’t think I’ve been that happy since my early days as a young, idealistic animal husbandry marriage counselor. Those were happy days indeed, until I realized that no such job existed. But life goes on and so do I, do I ever! For I am Secret Animal Inspector Man.


Sometimes I watch TV, but mostly I just make funny faces at myself in the mirror. It’s much more interesting than television and, because of its interactive nature, gives one a higher degree of intellectual simulation than might otherwise be attained. Or do I mean ineffectual stimulation? I’m not quite sure but I suppose it must be either six of one or have a dozen of another. And I’m not crazy or anything, but suddenly I’m hungry for donuts and I don’t know why, but it’s probably due to some kind of police conspiracy or government cover-up. And nobody’s been able to explain that one to me so don’t even think about going there because now you’ve got me all confused so thanks a lot! You must be some kind of wise ass smart aleck with a depreciated nipple face, if you know what I mean. So I’ll just ignore you, and if you don’t shut-up I’ll ignore you with my foot up your butt!

Anyway, there I was, making funny faces at myself in the mirror, just like any normal average ordinary run-of-the-mill American might do on a Saturday night, when suddenly I thought I saw my dirty laundry moving out of the corner of my eye. This was very unusual, and at first I thought it must be some kind of optical delusion. After all, my dirty laundry never ever moves anywhere unless it absolutely has to. Even if I yell and scream at the top of my lungs it just sits there silently, as if to mock me. The underwear and socks are bad enough, but the smocks are the worst. No wonder artists go crazy!

But then I saw it moving once again, so I did what any normal average ordinary run-of-the-mill American would do. I pulled out my gun and started shooting.

“Please stop!” begged the laundry, but it was too late for that because I was already out of bullets. As I franticly reloaded, this time with “hollow-points”, the laundry pleaded once again:

“Please! I’m unarmed!”

“Of course you’re unarmed,” I said, “You’re the laundry!”

“But I’m not!” it screamed, “Please! I can explain!”

And with that, out of my oversized pile of dirty, overdue laundry tumbled a little gray man. Not a lot gray, but just a little. So I said what any normal average ordinary run-of-the-mill American would say under the circumstances.

“Are you from outer space?”

“No sir.” He showed me a badge which I wasn’t allowed to look at. “I’m with the NSA.”

“The National Security Agency?!”

He shook off some of the dust. “Actually that’s a common misconception. Our official title is Numbnuts Spying on Americans.”

I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “And you’re here hiding in my dirty laundry?!”

“Oh yes,” he replied, “We love dirty laundry!”

“But why??!”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s comfortable and warm and I suppose it reminds us of when we were little babies…”

“No! What I mean is: What were you doing in my dirty laundry?!”

He almost seemed surprised at the question. “Why, spying on you, of course. I’m here to protect you from yourself.”

“Protect me from myself? You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“Well, I can’t help that sir. As we like to say at the agency: ‘Scaring is caring’.”

And with that he launched into a strange story of bizarre experimentation and frightening intrigue. But I had already seen that episode of the Kardashians, so I made him tell me more about the NSA.

“Oh yes,” he assured me, “We here at the NSA are on the cutting edge of 21st century espionage techniques. Even as we speak our scientists are working on methods to establish communication with domesticated animals.”

“You mean pets?”

“Amongst others.”

I must have had a puzzled look on my face because he continued without prompting.

“You see, we here at the NSA feel that domesticated animals, or pets as you call them, could be an invaluable source of information, and we want to know exactly what they know.”

Suddenly I understood. “You want pets to spy on their owners!”

“Of course,” he replied quite matter-of-factly.

Visions of a demented Doctor Doolittle danced in my head. I was almost afraid to ask, but couldn’t help myself.

“Have you had any… luck?” I inquired.

“Oh yes.” He reflected on this for a moment. “Strangely enough, it’s been the common housecat that has proven to be the most cooperative and easiest to work with. Unfortunately, all they’ll tell us for right now is: ‘I want chicken, I want liver, I want tuna, please deliver’. We’re sure it’s some kind of code, and we’re sparing no expense in our efforts to crack it!”

“And the dogs?” I asked.

He sighed. “We really don’t trust the dogs. We have unconfirmed rumors that they’re either a bunch of sleeping liars, or a bunch of lying sleepers, or maybe even both. And besides that, they’re always crying all the time.”

“And they ain’t never caught a rabbit so they ain’t no friend of mine!” I finished triumphantly.

He frowned. “Well, I can’t confirm that, but I’ll certainly look into it.”

And then I realized that he wasn’t really evil, like Dracula or telemarketeers, just misguided and moronic, like a fart seeking approval on credit. I felt like a child who had lost his incense.

“One of our most successful experiments,” he continued, “was with the common housefly. As a matter of fact, we were making quite remarkable progress until that unfortunate incident with the SWAT team.”

I felt sorry for him and despised him all at once. I knew I had to get rid of him but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, nor was I sure how to dispose of the body. Meanwhile, he continued his pitch.

“And inter-specie communication is not the only option we’re studying. The NSA is working very closely with hundreds of professionally accredited psychics in an effort to unlock the secrets of the universe, and gain some basic understanding and insight into its deepest mysteries.”

I was intrigued, yet repelled. “Have you had any success?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Well, not yet,” he admitted, “but Madame Boom-Boom assures me that I might be coming into some money next week if I play my lucky numbers while wearing plaid.”

But by this time I had had enough, and it was time for him to go. At first I tried letting him down gently.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.” I said.

“Don’t be afraid!” He cried out, “That’s just what the terrorists want! Don’t let them win!”

“Out,” I insisted.

“Be a pal!” he pleaded, “I’ve got a thirty-year mortgage!”


He seemed close to tears. “Please! Don’t make me look bad in front of my kids!”

“Get out!” I barked. I felt like a clumsy doctor, somewhat embarrassed and starting to lose my patients.

His demeanor suddenly changed as a vindictive look came over him. “All right,” he sneered, “I’ll get out. But you just wait. Somehow, someway, sometime, someday you’ll need me, and when you do I’ll be back with a vengeance! And then you’ll really be sorry!”

But it was too late for that because, just like any normal average ordinary run-of-the-mill American, I already am.

(for now)


I wish the proponents of HB2 would use their “head”.

Practice makes perfect, which explains why there are so many fools in the world.

If “you-know-who” wants to appeal to young black voters he should adopt a “hipper” moniker. Might I suggest T. RUMP.

To learn more on politics, listen to what the “Don” has to say.

I wouldn’t trust Trump to run tap water!

Vanity always clashes with good taste.

Hedonism and greed go hand in hand.

Greed is a terrible mistress, always making promises, always leading you on, but never satisfying you.

Who are we really worshiping; the Almighty, or the almighty dollar?

Honor Saint Teresa by remembering those who have been forgotten.

I wonder if Putin is the reincarnation of Rasputin, extracting his revenge.

Careful, when anger boils over it becomes hate.

Life is too short not to get along.

To turn your life around, face in a different direction.

What the fig meant was nothing.

What the pig meant was: “Hue goes there?”

My ship never came in. Just a dingy!