My Cardiac Ablation and Me

Going in for a cardiac ablation this morning. Kickoff is at 7:30 am at the Arlington Memorial Hospital and Home for Wandering Boys. Get this: a sober, well-rested doctor runs a catheter into my heart, MY heart, mind you. Attached to the catheter is a TV camera, miniaturized for the occasion. The catheter then plows through my flabby heart muscle until the highly educated, steady-handed doctor finds the NERVE that is causing arterial fluttering.

In the ninth grade I kissed the lovely Jezebel von Baconslice and my heart has been fluttering ever since. Anyway, the sharp-eyed, highly focused cardiologist then grabs his trusty soldering iron and BURNS the end of the nerve. This stops the fluttering and nothing else, like my heart beat.

My doctor has won the Cardiac Ablation Derby the last three years, so I don’t want to hear about anybody taking BETS.

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Of course, I want to write for a theater audience.

Of course, I want to write for a theater audience. Are you trying to confuse me? I could write for the solitary reader, or for a group discussion (what do I mean by that? The group reads the piece aloud in sections and people are free to comment on each section. Or they can keep their fucking mouths shut. But I digress)

Now sculpture is an art I wouldn’t mind dawdling with. Except that stone and rock and dirt and clay are messy.  When you are done for the day, you got to clean up. Here we go: clean it up, people. Your fucking space. Unless you don’t and someone else does it “for you”. Then the next session you hear how somebody suddenly isn’t your maid or manservant.

I hate that attitude, but I’ll bend. This time I’ll clean the space spic and span. I’ll over clean it. I’ll sand all the paint off the work table and re-paint it. I’ll work all night: cleaning, polishing, disinfecting my workspace.  Then I’ll tell the Impudent One how to widen their rear aperture so my ridiculously clean workspace will fit inside their godforsaken colon.

I’ve been watching the World Cup of soccer, which some think is the world’s most popular game. I disagree. The world’s most popular game is one body trying to convince another body to join in a rousing session of sexual intercourse.

I’ve been watching the World Cup of soccer, which some think is the world’s most popular game. I disagree. The world’s most popular game is one body trying to convince another body to join in a rousing session of sexual intercourse.

Leaving all that aside for a moment – that sport we call soccer is known to the rest of the world as football. Isn’t that ridiculous? Americans play football: the Chicago Bears. The Crimson Tide. What the rest of the world plays is not football, but footsie.

Ever notice that the players run around in their undies kicking a ball to each other? Sometimes they knock around the ball with their stupid heads. They even hit the ball with their chests. Don’t they realize they have arms and hands with which they could control the ball more naturally, if that thought ever crossed their simple minds?

You know why these idiots don’t use their hands? Nobody wants to be the first. The players find themselves stuck in a perverted game, invented by the CIA to keep everybody ignorant and confused. It takes courage and independent thinking to go against the norm, and most just want to go along with everyone else and not rock the boat.

I want to change the cliché “not rock the boat” to “not rock the seat of a Ferris wheel when it’s 40 feet off the ground”

A man walks into a bar. The bartender is a duck.

Man – You’re a duck
Bartender – That’s what the obstetrician told my mother. In a way to reassure her
Man – That you weren’t born a human
Bartender – Come to think of it, you are right. My father was a human mallard
Man – I don’t understand. Either you are a human OR you are a mallard.
Bartender – I used to think the same thing. Then someone pointed out the platypus.
Man – A human mother, duck father.
Bartender – Usually the other way around.
Man- You don’t say.
Bartender – You need to end up with an egg.
Man – So you were hatched.
Bartender- No. I am not a human mallard. I’m another kind of duck. Not a mallard.
Man – You say that with a certain –
Bartender – Sadness. I’m a Mississippi river swine duck.
Man – Never heard of it.
Bartender- Donald Duck is a human mallard.
Man – How can you – I mean. How can I tell? Being an outsider to this realm.
Bartender – A mallard wears no pants,
Man – Since you wear pants – you are a Mississippi river swine duck
Bartender – No, I am not a mallard.
Man – Oh, a logician, You are smarter than me.
Bartender – Isn’t everybody? Sorry. You walked right into that.
Man – No, I didn’t.
Bartender – Wounded pride. Listen, buddy. I’m not paid by the word. What’ll ya have?
Man – A glass of Cold Duck
Bartender – That’s not funny.
Man – Yes, it is.
Bartender – You need to leave.
Man – I’m sorry.
Bartender – No, you’re not. Leave, There’s a bar next door.
Man – Who tends bar over there, a goose?
Bartender – No, an ostrich.
Man – I hate ostriches.
Bartender- Arthur’s okay. He has a quaint way of dealing with reality.
Man – If you want me to leave.
Bartender – I really do.
Man – I’ll always remember you.
Bartender – As the duck who kicked you out of his bar.

Hey, Trump: You are telling me to pressure the democrats to change…

Hey, Trump: You are telling me to pressure the democrats to change the law they supposedly passed that allows the GUV to rip children from their parents if they are caught crossing the border. Refer to your “How a bill becomes law” flash cards.

YOUR party controls Congress and the presidency. So, what should YOU and YOUR party do to change this onerous law? Hint: don’t make little airplanes out of your “how a bill becomes law” flash cards until after you sign the bill (card #11),

Guns Don’t Kill People, Schools Kill People

I have the solution for the school shootings sweeping America. Starting tommorow, all schools will be burned to the ground. Children will be taught at home where they won’t learn obscene subjects like evolution, communism. sex intercourse, drinking, drugs, smarting off to their parents and all the other garbage that passes for education in the United States.

No schools, no more school shootings. You can’t beat logic like that.