GOUT -Not the Band, not the Hockey Team, but the Disease.

Chief symptom is a very painful big toe. Many great men have suffered from this affliction: Ben Franklin, Dr. Samuel Johnson, among others. Donald Trump has fake gout,
A shotgun blast to the offending appendage generally takes care of the problem. With a black magic marker, place an “X” on the toe you wish to remove to make doubly sure you excise the correct one, Or draw the “X” on the toe you wish to save. Write on a slip of paper which alternative the “X” represents then swallow the paper. To eliminate all confusion, draw an “X” on both toes. Good luck!


Angie: Dog Psychologist

Angie as ANGIE                                                                                                                                      Fido as FIDO
SCENE: ANGIE’S office in Asheville. North Carolina.
TIME: The present
ANGIES’S office is plain and unassuming. A large desk sits stage right. A couch for patients occupies center stage, a chair for the doggie doctor is upstage and slightly left of the head of the couch. The only office decoration is a velvet painting of psychologists Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, B. F. Skinner and Karen Horney playing poker.
ANGIE is a beautiful woman with a calm, open face. She is equipped with the usual human two of this and one of that and keeps her neck and face free of tattoos. She is very intelligent with a hilarious sense of humor.
She almost always dresses in t-shirts and jeans. Once every other year or so she wears a dress, which makes her feel like a drag queen even though she is a female.
FIDO lies on the patient couch. He is a German Shepherd/Dachshund mix with the large head of the Shepherd and the long body and short, stubby legs of the Dachshund. As he lies on his back, he wiggles his little paws.
Throughout the therapy session, ANGIE writes notes on a steno pad.
FIDO Of all the stupid dog names to give me – Fido. You know who names their dog Fido, don’t you? A family that plans to send that dog to the gas chamber.
ANGIE You’re beginning to show signs of paranoia again
FIDO My family hates me. The parents forget to feed me. The brats make fun of me all the time. They don’t take me for walks because I look so ridiculous, but if I do it on the floor or on their tacky furniture, they beat me with a broom. I’m so depressed.
ANGIE Tell me more about your father.
FIDO He was never around. He was the dachshund, you know.
ANGIE How was that possible?
FIDO Who knows? Such a big shot he was in the neighborhood. The wiener dog that got a shepherd pregnant.
ANGIE That’s quite a reputation to live up to.
FIDO Tell me about it. He didn’t come around very often. Though, when he did, he always brought me a bone.
ANGIE That was nice.
FIDO But it was always chewed up.
ANGIE A father who brings his son a chewed up bone is not a good father. Tell me about your mother.
FIDO Total bitch. Believe me. She tried to get rid of me from the day I was born. Once she threw me on a freeway during rush hour. Another time she locked me in a freezer for six hours. She got run over by a steam roller when I was a puppy. Guess who didn’t shed tears at her funeral.
ANGIE Is there anything else bothering you…
FIDO There is one thing, but I don’t want to talk about it. Not to a lady doctor                                                                                                                                            ANGIE Don’t worry about that. I’ve heard everything.
FIDO Okay. (Reluctantly) I’ll be around six or eight doggies, everybody sniffing each others butt. Boys sniffing girls, girls sniffing girls… but nobody sniffs my butt.
ANGIE Not even an old male doggie?
FIDO No. Not even a perv.
ANGIE Hmmm. (ANGIE writes furiously in her notebook)
FIDO It’s like I don’t gotta butt. How can a dog not have a butt?
ANGIE You don’t clean your butt, do you?
FIDO It’s too far back. My head don’t turn around so good.
ANGIE So you can’t lick your balls.
FIDO Don’t say that! No, I can’t! Oh, I’m so ashamed. I’m not a real boy!
ANGIE A doggie your age misses out a great deal in life if he can’t lick his own balls.
FIDO I know. I feel like such a freak.
ANGIE Don’t. Before you leave, I’ll give you pamphlet with stretching exercises so you can get that big shepherd head of your’s back there. Your tongue should be long enough.
FIDO Thank you, Dr. Angie. What about the other?
ANGIE Sniffing butts? Many doggies have that problem. Let me ask to a question. Are you initiating the sniff? Do you sniff another doggie’s butt before the other doggie sniffs yours? Or are you waiting for the other dog to sniff your butt first?
FIDO I’m not sniffing another doggie’s butt before he sniffs mine. I got my pride.
ANGIE That is the wrong attitude, young man. If you are too proud to sniff another doggie’s butt first, you may have to wait a long time for a doggie to sniff your butt, especially a girlie doggie.
FIDO I guess… I can try.
FIDO Why do doggies sniff each others’ butts anyway?
ANGIE Nobody really knows. Well, it’s time we finish up. I want you to pant for ten seconds, then close your eyes and imagine yourself on a huge mountain of Honest Kitchen dog food.
FIDO I’m not good enough for Honest Kitchen. That’s a hundred bucks a bag. Just throw me in a Dumpster. Or I’ll eat my own poop.
ANGIE No! You are as good a doggie as any. Yes, you look a little different but you must learn to embrace your inner and outer weirdness.
FIDO “…embrace my inner and outer weirdness.”
ANGIE That’s it! Now complete the meditation and I’ll see you next week. Do you have plenty of Prozac treats?
FIDO Yip! Yip!
Good doggie!

Pistol-Packing Pedagogues

Arming school teachers is the most grotesque idea I have ever heard in my life. The moral objections are well known and have been eloquently stated. However, what sinks this idea to the dankest precincts of hell is that it won’t work.

There are no secrets in high school. Every kid will know who the armed teachers are, including the one who planning a massacre. Along with the authority to carry a weapon, officials might as well hand out a target the teacher can wear on his back.

All the “training” the teachers receive will disappear the first and probably the only time they will come under fire. Police and combat veterans report the terror that nearly incapacitates them when they first encounter someone who is trying to kill them. Add to that the disturbing fact that the pistol-packing teacher might be facing a maniac with an AK-15.

Teachers carrying weapons could also find themselves under attack by students who might want to steal their gun to kill a store owner or a parent or even a teacher. A well-aimed blow to the head with a baseball bat would suffice to separate the arm from its bearer.

If ever an idea needed erasure from the mind of humankind it is this one – arming school teachers. Say it to yourselves a couple of times, taste its rank stupidity, and spit it out.

From the Mind of Man: Falcon Heavy

The mightiest rocket in human history exploded off a launching pad at Cape Canaveral – three reusable rockets: two side rockets, and a “core” rocket. Five million pounds of thrust drove the huge fire stick through a blanket of gravity and air. At ninety miles up, the two side rockets separated from the vehicle and fell toward our planet. Like cats, both rockets righted themselves, then landed at the same time five miles away from the launching pad.

All those who spew that the landing of the rockets was faked will be arrested and shot without trial.

The Tesla and Major Tom will orbit the sun forever. It will pass by Mars every blah, blah years – to take pictures of the remnants of ancient Martian civilizations, and current stations established by several current planets from our galaxy.

Thirty minutes Until Friday

Tomorrow is Friday. I wanted to say something about Friday but I can wait a half hour.

So what about Thursday? That the day you begin to ask yourself where did the week go? You didn’t do a thing all week. Too late to start anything. Only got a couple days to work on it, so forget it. I’m gonna lean back and day dream about what an important Juice Man I’m going to be someday.

Don’t mess with my man, he’s got wicked juice, my assistant gurgled.

Forget how that might look – all that juice splashing around. But I’m not the only guy with juice. So even if I’m resplendent with juice, there are other distinguished men of juice entering their fluids into the puddle. Eventually, no one really knows whose got the juice and who doesn’t.

The greater amount of juice belongs to me.

How do I know that? My haters wink

Don’t you watch the Daily Slop and Sprinkle? My detractors howl

I don’t got time for that.

Tomorrow morning. Four AM. Cable 57. My enemies slobber.

Forty percent is mine. I got the juice around here.

Potato Head, Washington. The dirty bottoms sneer.

All right. All right! I blubber.

My flow is go but nobody know.

Another sick tragedy brought to you by Mother’s indifference.


69 is the new 89. No, it’s the other way: 89 is the new 109! Right?

I wish to express my deepest gratitude to my 1967 classmates for their powerful, yet tender, rendition of the traditional air, Happy Birthday, at Whitey’s in Richfield, OH. Nancy Archey sent me a recording of the stirring, yet sensitive, performance via Messenger.

The recording opens with a shot of my surrogate. Mr. No No, a remarkable individual completely devoid of shame or self-consciousness at appearing in public wearing nothing below his waist! And it’s not that he ignorant of clothing. He does wear a cute little shirt and party hat.

Let me ask you in all candor: was he or was he not the only person in the restaurant showing the full extent of his lower body nakedness? He gets away with it because he is a bear – and people are afraid of bears!

The musical performance itself was majestic, reminding me of von Klunk’s “Cantata for Choir and Broken Beer Bottles.” The raucously delightful sopranos were sublimely balanced by the alcohol-fueled baritones. The choir maintained a steady rhythm throughout and no one forgot the words!

The performance touched my heart. It also gave me a hard wallop in the solar plexus which cleansed my lungs salubriously. I particularly appreciated the tagline: “And many more!”

Thanks again!

An Event of Cosmic Proportions

Dateline: January 12, 2018                                                                                                                                                                                              Arlington, TX

Grandpa used to tell us kids about the sun, a big, yellow ball in the sky. I never believed him until yesterday when I woke up to see a bright blue sky filled with eye blinding light. The light appeared to emanate from a intensely bright ball in the eastern sky. Was this the sun? I ran to ask Grandpa, but he was dead.