Vatican in Hot Water as Neighbors Accuse it of Blocking Internet Access

The Vatican is accused of blocking internet access for Italians bordering the tiny sovereign.

Hundreds of neighbors have complained that the Holy See is trying to control their online lives. Some of the websites reportedly blocked are protestantplanet, famousirishpopes, waferology (which has recipes for smuggled-home wafers), and Scientology.org, the official site of the Church of Scientology.

Why the Church of Scientology is blocked is not a mystery to Bernardo Respetti, a self-described conspiracy theorist and author who lives in nearby Rome. Respetti said someone hacked into the Vatican's main computer last year and nearly got away with all its secrets. He said the church suspects it was Scientology. A few weeks later, the Vatican reportedly hacked into Scientology's main website to see what it could learn, and managed to get to "Level 47."  Armed with each others' secret knowledge, the churches allegedly settled on a truce, where neither can acknowledge the other.

On the day of the truce, a memo was sent by the Pope to all priests, declaring it verboten to discuss the Church of Scientology in any way. The memo was intercepted by Israeli agents and forwarded to Jerusalem before working its way back to Rome.

In the meantime a petition was filed by 50 neighbors with a list of blocked websites, and stapled to the Vatican's main entryway. So far, the Vatican refuses to comment.

YouTube Sued for Racism

YouTube was sued yesterday by representatives from Yemen, Turkey and the Philippines, stating that the popular website discriminates against non-Westerners with deliberate slowdowns after 5pm E.S.T.

The lawsuit, filed in Geneva, says these slowdowns are meant to "increase the speed in which videos load for Americans, at the expense of non-Americans." The suit says U.S. customers typically barnstorm the internet after 5 p.m., which "causes a buildup in the tube stream."

"If videos are slow to load," the suit maintains, "U.S. customers react the angriest, flooding message boards with complaints, and sooner or later the FCC gets involved and eventually Congress."

The suit says non-Westerners are singled out for slowness, with the assumption that their countries are "less empowered" than Western ones, and slow video loading wouldn't lead to complaints or even be considered unusual.

"This is false assumption," says the suit. "We don't appreciate video slowness any more than people in Idaho or Alberta. We demand equal access to the Internet, and maintain that any democratic website should be impartial to where its eyeballs come from."

The suit seeks unspecified damages, but is considered to be in the billions of dollars.

Mrs. God

Image by Caio Basilio via Flickr

I'm Sherri, the wife of God. You've probably never heard of me, but that's cool. I'm the one who makes sure God gets your prayers every night. In fact, I delivered one of your prayers yesterday. You said, and I quote: "If tomorrow's blog story is successful I'll be forever grateful." I hope you don't mind me telling you that God put your submission in the stack with everyone else's, so I wouldn't get my hopes up.

What do you want to know about Him (notice the capitalization?) I'm sensing that you want to know His first name. If I told you I would have to kill you. Do you have another question? The answer is No. See, you didn't even have to ask.

Let me tell you one thing: He hates beards. All future prophets, enough with the beards. More questions? Yes, He is ambivalent about masturbation. Yes, He can read, but prefers your prayers be out loud. Yes, He will use lightning on someone. Boy, you can come up with them. Yes,  Hair loss will visit you. Yes, steeples are an extravagance. Yes, periods are necessary. Yes, Fanta is disgusting. Yes, worshiping 30 minutes or more is a waste of time. Yes, foreskin removal is a relic of the past but looks a hell of a lot better.Yes, yes, yes.

Excuse me, God is calling. Nice chatting.

Rude Comment to YouTube "Taxman" Leads to Audit

Mark Krowly didn't take kindly to IRS agent Gerald Fitts making a YouTube video warning potential tax dodgers to look out this season. He told the agent to "f--k off" during a 197 character rant that may have led to his audit.

Krowly claims he was angry the IRS "would invade a peaceful hamlet like YouTube with fussy, veiled threats," and was investigated by the IRS shortly thereafter, for a comment he admits crossed the line.

"I basically challenged the legitimacy of the tax, as well as the legitimacy of Mr. Fitts' birth," he said.

Before being audited Krowly received dozens of emails from concerned YouTube citizens who warned him that he might need to get his financial affairs in order. Krowly realized at that point "I was pretty much toast."

When he tried to delete his comment, a cryptic message on the web page announced "Comments Are Disabled." Krowly's comment had gone into the void, as well as hundreds of others. The IRS would not comment on these comments, or if there is a procedure to collect them.

A woman in Utah wishing to stay anonymous says she is particularly worried about Krowly's fate, because she commented directly underneath his comments in support of his opinion.

She has hired an attorney.

Never Mess With (My) God

Image via Wikipedia

Especially if You're in a Different Religion

If I were God I would have a Commandment that says you can make fun of me three times a year. Do it four times, though, and you're going to hell. Two times is considered pushing it. Once is best.

I don't believe in God, but that doesn't make me a heretic. It makes me an non-believer. If you believe I'm a heretic, you probably believe in an anthropomorphic kind of God, one that avenges this type of behavior. I also think God would have more than two nostrils, given the choice, and He wouldn't need toes, which are there to keep balance. Also, God would not have ugly ears. He would have beautiful ears. Have you ever noticed our ears? The ugliest things on the planet.

I believe God would have a middle name, too. Make that three middle names. Or eighty middle names. He would have the longest name in history. If you said it out loud, you would be required to put a "Sir" in front of it. Or  "Lord." Or the "The Lord."

I don't believe God would allow a snarky thing called science to disprove him. He would abolish science, or have his true believers try to abolish it. Wait ... maybe there is a God.

I believe consciousness permeates the universe, that God is everywhere, and everything, not just an entity who resides in a special place called Heaven. I don't believe in an anthropomorphic God, one with human characteristics, like anger, jealously and vengeance.

I've run out of time... I wasn't allowed to mock "God" more than a couple of times, and here I am overstaying my welcome. I believe I'm wanted in hell now?

Stoner Conversation

Larry rolled a joint, a handmade joint. It looked "jointed," full of lumps. Amateurish.

"I can't wait for perfectly rolled joints," I said.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"When pot becomes legal, we'll have factory-rolled joints, like cigarettes. Perfectly round."

"I can't wait, either. All kinds of special designs on the packaging."

"Yeah. Wow."

We thought of the future. Puffing in bars. Checking out each others' cigarette cases.

"As a society, we'll be much happier," I predicted. "And creative. Alcohol is such a depressant."

"Pot bars will replace alcohol bars."

"Not that there's anything wrong with alcohol."

"It's just that drunks ruin it for everybody else."

"True, plus being an alcoholic is a selfish undertaking. You don't like sharing the bottle."

"Pot is more social," Larry agreed.

He passed me the joint.

I took a puff.

"Ahhh," I exhaled.

"Your pot 'ahhh' is different than the average stiff drink 'ahhh.'"

"Ahhhhhhh."

"The stiff drink 'ahhh' is said with gusto after pain. The pot 'ahhh' is uttered because the pot relaxes you."

"How interesting," I said. "Pot tastes good too. It really does. I want to be a pot bartender."

"What do you mean?"

"I want to serve pot."

"A pot bartender?"

"You'd be handed a smoking pipe instead of a cold glass, for example."

"A warm glass instead of a cold glass?"

"Exactly. Bartenders are like lab assistants anyway. Technicians. The right amount of liquid mixed correctly with some other liquid. I want to mix pot varieties."

"Pot varieties. Mmmmm."

"Acapulco Gold mixed with Panama Red. Powerfully intoxicating."

"How about northwest Mexican mixed with southeastern Canadian?"

"Exotic. The possibilities are endless. So are the highs."

"OCB Kush melded with some Afghanistan bush weed."

"Hard core. After dinner, some nice Perrella mixed with some Calabrisella."

"My lungs are moist just thinking about it."

"Cheers."

We clanked our lighters together.  

My Trip to Hell

Hell found me. Or should I say, I found hell.

I found hell because I wanted to go there--desperately.

TRIP TO HELL

I started my trip to hell by saying God's name in vain. Then I said Jesus's name in vain. To cover my bets I also said Allah's name in vain, Vishnu's name in vain, Buddha's name in vain, Zeus's name in vain, and Sun Myung Moon's name in vain.

Then I stole a pack of cigarettes, and smoked them, and littered them. I know littering is not a Commandment but it's illegal in most cities. To ensure my going to hell, I turned a teenager on to cigarettes. Then I tried quitting myself, which is an abbreviated form of hell.

I became a mortgage broker and specialized in loans with variable interest rates. There's a special place in hell for me.

I started playing Christian music backwards.

I got a special audience with the Pope and did nothing but fib to him.

Right before falling asleep I withheld prayer, but found time to masturbate.

I read "The Origins of Species." Twice.

I became a telemarketer.

ARRIVAL IN HELL

Who greeted me in hell? The creators of South Park, mosquitoes, Hitler, Hitler's chaplain, the inventor of the restroom hand dryer, a homeless guy named Steve, and a surprising number of televangelists. Oh, and Jeff Bezos, the founder of Amazon, for selling too many Satanic Bibles and Korans.

Hell is exactly how you'd expect it: hot. With too much humidity.

ESCAPE FROM HELL

After fifty thousand eternities I decided I had enough of hell. It was time to escape.

Leading the way out was Bon Scott, immortal singer of AC/DC, who later wrote a song about the experience, called "Highway Out of Hell." He suggested we take the quick route, the "Stairway to Heaven" road. I wasn't sure if there was still time to change the road we were on, but he assured me there was, so we headed north, all the while, the first verse of John Lennon's "Imagine" kept going through my mind (!). OJ Simpson tried to tag along but we made him go back. We passed Noel Gallagher on the way but he was heading south.

Finally, there was light up ahead -- soothing light, diffused light, not burning, raw light. Roy Orbison met us at the gate. I asked for Peter, and he said he hoped I didn't mean Frampton. I assured him it was Gabriel I was after.

We ate angelic sponge cake and apple sauce and drank champagne and no one burped. Heaven did away with all burping.

Peter Gabriel gave us a tour of The Place. It was BIG.

Gabriel said God loved the name of his original band, Genesis, and I asked him what his current band's name was, and he told me Genesis II.

I asked him who he was most surprised to see in Heaven and he said Yoko Ono. He said Paul McCartney was, as it turns out, the real reason for the Beatles break-up, and for that he's in hell.

Opera Lover

Image by sachman75 via Flickr

The glass above my head shattered. An opera singer shattered it from across the room using her voice. She noticed me drunkenly balancing a champagne glass on my head at a party and nudged her friend. Then, she let loose a high "C" and blew the glass up, spraying shards everywhere. People around her covered their ears.  More glasses were dropped.  Glass was everywhere.

I looked at her and mouthed "What the fark," but she mistook it for something naughty. She looked directly into my eyes and nudged her friend again, so I dropped to the floor and covered my head with my hands. I was wearing $400 glasses.

Suddenly, she was slapped by a gentleman standing nearby. His voice was like a heavenly roar.

"What in God's name are you doing, woman?"

She looked at him with disgust.

"Having a little fun, you... Iago."

The mention of that name enraged him.  I crawled away but the floor was covered in glass, so I screamed something worthy of a Bellini tragedy, but was drowned out by their voices. She was yelling at him, and he was using a counter-tenor against her. It sounded beautiful.  So I stopped crawling and began listening. As did everyone else. Snacks were handed out.

In the end, they were so out of breath we had to applaud. Some more glasses were dropped, but this time no one cared.
---

My appreciation for opera expanded that day -- I began watching soap operas religiously. I even memorized which ones belonged to what TV networks, the ultimate in devotion.

Since there are so many soap operas on TV, I had no choice but to get a TiVo, so I could watch them in one chunk. It forced me to stay up til midnight most nights, but that is the price you pay for being a devotee of art. Now, if they would only introduce singing...

I had such an appetite for these shows that I even tapped into the Hispanic market. I recorded all the Telemundo soaps and paid for a service to have them translated. But that wasn't enough, so I had the Italian ones satellited in, which turned out to be the best.

Several out-of-work opera singers starred in these Italian soaps. It was the ultimate in opera fetishism.

One lady had been queen of the stage, but she took the role of a dowdy prison warden on the show. She was trampled to death by a crowd of rioters. She decided to retire after that, after the producers wouldn't let her come back from the dead in a dream. Actually, they agreed to one dream, but she demanded an unprecedented four dreams. They told her to hit the road.

One gentleman had a famous mustache that he was ordered to shave for the show. Needless to say, he was distraught. The writers simply built it into an episode, so he could shave it in front of a sympathetic audience.

Another well-known star never allowed his speaking voice to be heard in public, so he was afraid to use it on the show. The producers made him a deaf mute.

I watched these Italian soaps while eating popcorn but switched to pasta in tribute to that great nation, but it required so much attention that so I switched back to popcorn. I now eat popcorn sprinkled with Parmesan cheese.

Speaking of cheese, American soaps are the "cheesiest," followed by: Italian soaps, then Hispanic soaps. I hear Iranian soaps are pretty cheesy too, but I haven't seen one -- yet.

Next week I plan on watching all the Canadian soaps. That should kill an hour.

Eventually, I will watch all the soaps of the world. I will let you know how things turn out.

Ode to my favorite color--Brown

I like the color brown
It fits my frown
and my beverage
when it's upside-down

and the sand
when it's wet
and the coloring
of my pet

I like brown
a brown clown
would be renowned

Brown is beautiful
especially in the Fall
Cleveland browns, Chicago browns
no difference the city
Fall is a Ball

Brown isn't bright
It's subdued and subtle
I'm thinking of it as
having no rebuttal

Don't tempt me with Pink
I'm happy you're Yellow
I'm sticking with you, Brown
Quintessence of mellow

Man Strains So Hard He Craps Out His Soul

Ray Charles via last.fm

From WBBL in Detroit:

Vatican officials have confirmed a man in East Lansing, Michigan crapped out his soul while straining too hard on a commode yesterday. Two priests and a plumber were brought in by the local diocese, but the whereabouts of the soul still is a mystery.

Reportedly, after holy water was added to the toilet in an attempt to "cleanse the plumbing," persistent stains in the porcelain disappeared overnight, which the priests call a "miracle." Hours later, the plumber was taken to a local hospital for evaluation after complaining of being hungry subsequent to the ordeal, which those in attendance call "crazy."

Meanwhile, the victim, a 56-year-old man, was diagnosed as being "1,000,000% Caucasian" upon losing his soul. He was ordered to go on a strict diet and to eat nothing but country fried okra, butter beans with hambones, tongue espagnole, chitterlings, and Red Velvet Cake. And plenty of laxatives.

He is expected to recover completely if he follows this diet and listens to "Let's Stay Together" by Al Green, "Sincerely" by The Moonglows, and "Drown In My Own Tears" by Ray Charles over and over again. 

Trumped

Image via Wikipedia

The Hiring

The Donald summoned me to his office. He didn't offer a seat so I stood by his desk. His chair was facing a window and I could see New York's skyline. I also saw the top of his skull, and memorized the pattern of his hair. He was on a speakerphone, so I had time to study his scalp. I knew then how I could "wow" him.

"I don't care what it takes, get it done," he barked into the phone.

The voice on the phone said, "It will be done by tomorrow."

"Make it tonight," countered The Donald. "Or you're fired."

The phone went dead. Donald swiveled around. His craggy face looked at me contemptuously.

"You've got ten seconds," he said.

I took a deep breath. "Eleven brush strokes in the morning, all flowing to the left. Followed by flopping your hair forward from the back to the front." I made a swooping motion with my hand.

"That's enough," said The Donald, glaring at me. His eyes were flints.

"Then you spray it with hairspray, most likely Aqua-Net, since it's the best."

"Enough!"

"Then you test it by walking by a pedestal fan."

"You're fired."

"But I'm not hired yet."

"You're hired," he said. "Now you're fired."

"If you fire me I'm writing a tell-all book. It's going to be a psychological profile of your hair."

"You're re-hired," he said. "Congratulations."

I shook his hand.

That was last year.

Yesterday, his number one-adviser retired but The Donald sent out a press release saying that he was "fired." Donald doesn't like people to leave his employ voluntarily -- he'd rather fire them.

I wanted the position because the office was closest to the bathroom. A bimbo named Bambie Carruthers was also in contention for that position. She used the men's room too, so it was to her advantage to get the job, especially since she had to use it more than anyone else. I followed her into the bathroom one day and saw that she used the urinal just like one of the guys. She was forced to learn to pee quickly in such a high-pressure environment, and while admiring her gutsiness, I couldn't help but notice that she didn't wash her hands when she was done. I knew The Donald was a neat freak, so I installed a hidden camera in the bathroom, and recorded her coming and going 16 times in one day, and not once did she wash her hands. She barely glanced at the mirror on her way out the door! Was she actually a woman? I knew the answer as soon as I used "zoom" on the video: she was definitely a woman.

The Pitch

"You've got ten seconds," said The Donald. Instantly, I brought out a DVD player and hit the "play" button, and in high definition it showed Bambie finishing up at the urinal and nonchalantly walking out the door without a second look at the sink.

The Donald's eyes were wide when I shut off the player. I saw fear.

"Enough," he said. "I can't believe I saw Bambie do that."

"You saw her," I confirmed. "And you might as well have seen her germs, too."

"My God," said The Donald, and began scratching himself everywhere. I got out a bottle of anti-bacterial spray and began spritzing him with it.

"Yessss," he moaned, reveling in the mist, and twisting around in his chair. He was still scratching, and nearly foaming at the mouth. In a hoarse voice he uttered, "That bitch."

I got out another bottle, this one labeled "Holy Water."

"NOOOO," screamed The Donald, when the first drops landed. His hair began to sizzle.

"May the power of Christmas compel you," I chanted.

The Aftermath

Bonus checks were mailed routinely after that, and everyone was delighted. I was promoted to top adviser, and Bambie Carruthers was fired. But The Donald didn't fire her in person -- which was a first for him. He did it via bathroom webcam.

"Bambie," he said in his inimitable voice as her hand reached the bathroom door one last time. "At least you flushed. But you're fired."

The Donald is bald now. That was my first advice to him.; so far, so good. The next thing I'm advising him to do is grow a goatee, and to hold a trident in his right hand, and to wear expensive cloven shoes, and to get a small "9 9 9" tattoo upside-down where his hair used to be. I think that will be a good look for him.

Travails of the Invisible Man

Image by [auro] via Flickr

As the Invisible Man, I'm often going places not having to get dressed first. I like not having clothes -- either on me or in the closet. You could say I have an invisible closet too. The only downfall is I'm a hippie, go figure, and my hair is down to my waist, and it's very beautiful, and I like to take care of it, but you cannot see it. So why bother? As a matter of fact, I can't see it either. So really why bother? Thank God for touch. I can at least touch it. I can also touch myself in public, but I don't. It's nice having that luxury, though.

I don't have a lot of friends, because for some reason they need the assurance that I'm actually there. Since I refuse to wear clothes, they say it's like having a ghost around--a naked ghost--even though I'm a fantastic listener. I don't moan, or say "boo," I just listen. I'm the perfect cell phone friend as well, but I hate using them, because it confuses people when I'm using them in public ... like everyone else.

Being invisible does have an advantage: I can see what wind looks like. (Farts too.)

I can also stalk movie stars, but that gets old, so I decided to stalk bankers; that way I can be a superhero. I just eavesdrop on their shenanigans and file reports. I've already saved this country twenty times yet Batman gets all the cred. I'm the 'invisible hero,' the one that stays in the shadows, except I stand in direct sunlight. I'm thinking of a gimmick, though. Maybe a corncob pipe, but that sounds a little too Sherlocky Holmes. Maybe an obnoxious cologne. You'd be minding your own dirty business, and suddenly this foul odor would envelop you. Your eyes would water, and you would cough. By the time you were arraigned in court the next day it would look like you were suffering a cold. That should be my gimmick.

I'm thinking about getting a tattoo, too: a circle around my heart. That way, if I ever need open heart surgery, the doctors can find it.

My next-door neighbor has an invisible fence that keeps his dogs in. He doesn't realize I made a secret hole in it so his dogs can visit my yard. Sometimes for a laugh I'll go up to his front door and his dogs will bark at me and of course he'll answer the door and look around and then yell at his dogs. I do it all the time to the neighborhood dogs as a practical joke, but some of them get their feelings hurt if their owner is particularly upset.

I haven't painted my house in years and despite numerous visits by code enforcement, I haven't gotten a fine. I just assure them it's painted.

Next week I'm getting rid of my toothbrush to see if I can finally become visible by having the world's stinkiest breath.

Echo Effect

Image by $ydney via Flickr

My friend is in a band
in Florida
A band-mate of his lives in England now
where he introduced their CD to a local station
who broadcast it to the natives, and simultaneously as a webcast
where my friend overheard his song
in Florida, streaming to his couch via the Internet, with no time delay
from a country that is five hours ahead!
Funny how things work in a technological age.

Dog-like

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

I'm a dog in so many ways -- like eating really fast, and hating to shave. Also, I have sex on the brain constantly. I shed too if you look at my shower drain, and my eyes are always red in photographs.

I wouldn't mind eating canned dog food if there is no horse meat in it, because it seems so unbelievably delicious when my dog chows it down. My penis is bigger than my dog's, so I wouldn't trade that. But his hearing ability I wouldn't mind having. I would like to hear what he hears, especially when I have headphones on. I bet music would sound great. Dogs can only see in black and white. Does that mean they can only hear in mono? That would suck. My poor doggie, I want to hug him for not having stereo.

He started out with brown hair, and gradually took on gray hair, so we share that in common. I've used "Just For Men" hair dye on myself and I have also used it on him, and I can testify that he looks years younger. He has most of his hair, too, so he gets more compliments.

He doesn't know algebra and neither do I. I don't kick when a certain area is scratched, I punch. I have responded to a whistle before, so that makes me "obedient." I tend to shake hands whenever someone hands me a paw. I can stand on two legs for hours on end and he can't, but I think he is better balanced.

I am like him, and unlike him, in so many ways, but he has a better singing voice.

Nonet Poem

Image by madaboutasia via Flickr

Nine lines. First line has nine syllables, second has eight, and so on.

My body cries out for a massage
Caring hands for my aches and pains
Firm but compassionate strokes
My breathing relaxed, ahhh
So memorable
My breathing stops
Near my groin
Will she?
No

My Secret

My secret is that my dog saw me naked. It was an accident. I was coming out of the shower and heard a noise. I looked over and there he was. He may or may not have been panting. That is a secret I will carry to my grave.

Naturally, I was devastated, and afterward when we went on walks, I made him stay an extra yard ahead. I wouldn't look him in the eye when I pet him, either, which may have hurt his feelings. I only knew that every time he saw me his tail would start wagging and that made me sick. I locked my door when taking a shower from then on and put extra tags on his collar so that he would jangle when he was nearby.

I began calling him "Fifi" to see how he would react; he didn't. I took him to the groomer and had his hair shaved off so I could say I saw him naked, too, but there were no long-term effects.

Finally, I just accepted that he saw me naked. He was my best friend, after all; what did it matter? Soon, I began walking around nude in front of him, then I began parading around. I was finally free of the closet-like confines of the bathroom. Next week is the Big Test when Samantha spends the night and we have sex and we might even get to see glowing eyes.

Definition of conspiracy theorist

Definition of a conspiracy theorist: One that automatically thinks you're crazy if you don't come to the same conclusions.

Adios from the Middle of the Table

Hi, I'm mayonnaise, a condiment you're not supposed to leave out very long, but I don't care. Refrigerators cramp my style.

I just spent four months next to a jar of butter pickles and nobody noticed. Now, I'm outside and hanging with a real power couple, the salt and pepper shakers, who couldn't be more upright. I'm in great company here, even though my expiration date is coming up very soon, and I try not to think, or say, too much about it (I need to keep my lid on). But it's coming up, and I need to prepare. Salt already offered to dump a lot of himself in me, to preserve me, but I declined. I would rather die than be that salty. Pepper offered to help too, but reneged when I said I preferred paprika.

Truthfully, what I need now is a freezer. I hate to admit it, but it's true. I would miss all my friends, of course, but you can't have everything. I figure I'd get used to staring at ice cubes after awhile. I would even get to see a human face maybe once a night (for two seconds) and I'm okay with that. In my refrigerator days I saw a human roughly once an hour, and took it for granted. The freezer is like a no-man's land compared to the refrigerator.

My pal Mustard has it made because he can live forever. What dimwit made Mustard last a trillion times longer than Mayonnaise?

I have to say adios now because the temperature is starting to rise and I'm afraid I'm starting to spoil. I guess the rumors are true.

Adios, from the middle of the table, where I got to hang out for awhile.

Wheel of Misfortune

Pat Sajak ripped the Bankrupt pie wedge off the wheel and hit his manager with it.

"I'm bankrupt," he said.

"I know," said the manager, who blocked it with his arm. "I helped get you there."

"Help me solve the puzzle then. It's your fault."

"You can spin it any way you like."

"You can't spin it backwards," Pat corrected him.

"A good attorney can," corrected his manager.

Pat walked to the edge of the set. He wanted to rip the curtain open, he was that mad. So he did.

Half the audience was still there, in their seats. They had heard the commotion and stayed behind. When they saw Pat they applauded.

"Did anyone say applaud?" Pat yelled. They stopped applauding.

"Thank you," he whispered.

An older man in the audience wearing a fancy Texas cowboy hat stood up.

"Mister Sajak, may I call you 'Partner?'" he said. "I have a proposition for you."

"You can call me Partner only if it helps me out," Pat said.

"Well, Partner, it just might. I couldn't help but overhear your financial woes. Let me put it this way: I'm rich, big rich, and I can get you out of this mess. Right now."

"How?" asked Pat.

"You like to gamble?"

"Not really."

"Well, I do. That wheel you got there is a big ol' crap wheel. Let's say we spin it and see where it lands."

The manager came up and tapped Pat on the shoulder. Pat hit him with the wedge.

"Good job," said the old man, approvingly. "He's not here to help you win."

"Win?"

"I have a million dollars saying you won't land on a primary color."

Pat studied the wheel.

"I'll take that bet," he said.

The old man came up to the stage and wrote out a check.

"You can verify everything's there if you'd like."

Pat stared at the check, then at the man. "I just might."

The manager tried to grab the check to "verify" it, but Pat held it out of his reach.

"Never mind," Sajak said, "I believe him."

"Thanky," said the old man.

Pat grabbed the wheel. He studied the layout. He had a roughly 1-in-2 chance of landing on a primary color. He was about to give it a whirl, when the old man said, "Now, what if you lose?"

"Lose?"

"What do I get?"

Pat thought hard, his hand on the wheel. "I don't know. I don't have much to give right now."

"You're one of the producers of the show, right?"

"Yes."

"Then you know what I want."

Pat spun the wheel. There was a gasp, then a groan from the audience.

Later, Vanna White was fixing one of the letters by standing on her toes and showing off her ageless legs when Pat approached and gave her the bad news.

She threw the letter in his face and stormed away.

...right into the arms of the Texan, waiting for his prize.

Food as Sex

Image via Wikipedia

My friend made a delicious chicken dish and I marveled at how good the chicken tasted.

"I wouldn't mind eating one with size D breasts," I said.

"I've had one before," he boasted.

"Were they real?" I asked.

"Hardly," he said. "They were pumped full of hormones. But my stomach didn't care."

He was a true gourmet, my friend. He fondled his meat before putting it in the cart, and when he got home he seasoned it and battered it and occasionally smothered it.

"Did you ever want to eat a rooster?" I asked him.

"Never. You?"

"Once, on the farm ... in that environment you act differently sometimes."

"No excuse," he said. "You should never be attracted to a rooster."

"Why? It fries just the same."

"It's not an 'it,' it's a 'he,'" he reminded me.

"So you only eat females?"

"Yes."

"I find that hard to swallow."

"You would."

"What about cows? Steak-wise, you enjoy the males."

"I don't do red meat," he stated. "Just the mother's milk."

"Fish?" I asked.

"Fish doesn't matter. You can't tell the difference."

My freezer was full of various sexes, so I vowed to separate them by putting some in the freezer and the rest in the fridge. If that didn't work, I would avoid one sex entirely. If that didn't work, I would discriminate against all sex and simply do soy.

My friend called that "gay."

Blow Then Pop

She licked the Blow Pop for so long the stem splintered. I wanted to meet her tongue.

I followed her down the street. Would she suck on another?

She dug into her purse. Another pop came out. She unraveled the wrapper and let it float to the sidewalk. I stepped on the wrapper and saw that it said "root beer."

So she liked beer.

She also liked roots.

I swallowed.

I watched her lick it. There was a slight bobbing as she sucked. That's all I needed to see.

"Pardon me, ma'am," I said, stepping in front of her.

She stopped. Her lips parted in surprise; I saw how they formed around the stick.

"Whaw?" she said.

"Pardon me," I repeated. "I saw you sucking that thing and knew I had to re-introduce myself. John Byrd, Tootsie Pop account executive. We met before at the Confectionery Convention. You won 'Best Face' during the Sour Apple Eating competition."

There was total non-recognition on her part. But I knew those lips, and especially that tongue.

"I don't recall meeting you there," she said. She had stopped licking and was now in the process of chewing.

"It's fine if you don't remember me," I said. I too was chewing.

"Fingernail chewing is why I switched to Blow Pops in the first place," she said, studying me. I stopped chewing.

"I needed a new habit," I protested, hiding my hands. "I was getting fat eating our product."

"Shame on you," she said.

"I paid for them all!" I lied.

"You forget I worked for Blow Pop, your main competitor, and we had spies everywhere, and we knew about your pilfering. We also know you are the one responsible for introducing 'Olive' flavor to the world, not to mention the Tootsie Roll Laxative."

"How--?"

"Now get out of my face and let me chew in peace."

--

Later that night I plotted my revenge (no one blows me off like that).

She would open her front door and be met by a huge bubble, made of gum, that I would pop in her face. She wouldn't know what hit her.

I did an internet search for the best bubble gum and found Ollie's, which promised huge bubbles, and had it shipped in. Ollie's tasted like regular gum and chewed like regular gum, but the bubble itself was fantastic, about the size of a basketball, and retained its shape for a good 30 seconds. When it popped, it popped outward, making a great mess.

I got binoculars and watched her door and took note of how long it took for her to answer her doorbell. She averaged 25 seconds per ring, so I knew I could ring it, then form a bubble, and would have a 5 second window of opportunity, plus-or-minus her motivation to get to the door.

Halfway to her door, though, I stepped on a jelly candy baking into her driveway and my plan was thwarted when my sneakers made an awful squeaking noise and her dog in the garage began to bark. I quickly got out of there and soaked my shoes in mineral spirits and plotted my next move.

Then my phone rang, and it was her on the line.

"I heard you at my place today," she said. "I recognized your pace. From the time you were following me."

"You heard me squeaking?"

"Yes. It was you."

"It was me. I came offering taffy."

"I only do toffee."

"What about root beer?" I inquired.

"My sweet spot," she confided. "Mmm."

"I have frothy one right now," I lied. "With clean ice cubes."

"A straw?"

"Made of candy, just the way you like it."

"I'll be right over," she said.

I took four sticks of gum and folded them in half and placed them in my mouth, then added four more, and made a bubble the size of a medicine ball. Then I kept adding gum until it became the size of a bean bag sofa.

I unlatched the door and turned off the lights.

I heard someone's hand on the knob.

The door opened.

The stick in her mouth caused a big explosion.

Roll Play

Image by Stoichiometry via Flickr

"You will be the dog and I will be the master. Roll over."

She rolled over.

"Good, now play dead."

She whimpered a little and died.

"Now reawaken."

She scrambled right up.

"Now be happy."

She didn't have a tail, so she wagged her tongue.

"Perfect. Now find me your bone."

She sniffed his zipper.

"Fetch."

She soon had his bone in her mouth. It was a big bone, the kind she liked. She preferred it sideways, though. When she was done she left lots of drool.

"Finish it off," he commanded

She finished it off.

"You made a mess, didn't you?" he scolded.

She panted.

"Come." It wasn't over yet.

She eventually came.

Dear 37th President

Image by gfoots via Flickr

Dear Nixon,

Oh Richard, you know I mean you. After all, what other Nixons are there?

I miss your nose and your deep voice. Your voice was pretty deep, did you know that? It was the opposite of Jimmy Carter's higher-pitched voice. Maybe Jimmy got elected because of his voice, which was completely the opposite of yours.

I miss your double "V" for victory sign as you left us, intent on boarding a military helicopter, going who knows where. San Clemente? The peaceniks around the country watched you do this on TV and didn't do a "V" in return.

I miss you going up against the hippie establishment, almost single-handedly. That's probably why you needed to compile a list, a so-called "enemies list," because your "enemies" had to be "compiled" before they could be eliminated because that's how a king operates.

I miss hearing your cronies on tape recordings. None of them were caught singing, or even humming once. I think that says a lot about your administration.

I want you back in office mainly because as soon as you get thrown out again, Disco will re-surface.

Love,

Modern Music Hater

Dead Computer/New Computer

Image via

Something was wrong. My computer went black. It died halfway through a porn movie, so I never found out who the villain was. Its little red CPU light stayed off, meaning it was "dead."

I couldn't afford to have it buried, nor resurrected, so I was stuck with it. I thought about trading it in for a new one, but was told that doesn't happen.

So, it became a book holder, something to put my foot on, a temporary printer stand, and "Boxy," my cat's aluminum playground.

"Boxy" had hairs on it when I finally had the courage to dump it at a friend's uncle's toxic landfill. Before dumping "Boxy," I stripped her of her drive, just in case there were any hard-drive grave robbers around.

Once I got the hard-drive home, I crushed it beyond recognition with a 40lb sledge hammer, having said a few prayers first.

I took the remnants to the lake and took a boat to the middle of the lake and released the particles into the air. It was a spiritual but sickening experience.

Heading back to shore I thought of all the computer moments I shared with it. So many memories. So much "memory."

At the computer store I broke down when deciding whom to take with me. Did I go for "power" or "productivity"? Or both?

I compared price tags and countries of origin.

I decided an American processor with a possible South Korean motherboard and a Japanese hard-drive would work best. My sales lady assured me it would have Chinese parts too, and I said that was fine.

I took my baby home and gave it my complete attention for several nights. First, I taught it about me, then about "itself." I spent practically all my non-working hours on it. I hate to say it, but at one point I did masturbate in front of it.

Eventually, I forgot it was there, it was doing its "thing" so well. I could go off and do my "thing" without worrying about it. That means I'm a successful parent.

My computer, however, met another computer and got a virus from it.

I thought it was a shame that it happened -- I'd invested a lot time and money in it. I guess I expected more from it.

I was disappointed in the type of virus, too: a low-grade ESPN-reporter-is-nude virus. I'd responded to its come-on, sure, but I expected my computer would have eventually warned me out of it.

Anyway, the infection didn't last long, thank God, and there was no permanent damage, but psychologically, I look at things differently nowadays, with more suspicion.

I have a program watching my other programs now. It's called an "anti-virus" program. It runs in the background like a babysitter. I have no idea how it works; I'm just glad it does.

Before going to bed, I check my computer's "vitals" on various displays. I can see its pulse rate, and whether or not it's being overwhelmed. If for any reason it has an emergency, I can be awakened, too, thanks to ear-piercing squawks that go through my speakers. Just last night it awoke me at 2 a.m. to say it needed to reboot because it may have caught something. I watched it fight off an infection for a good 20 minutes. I was so relieved when it won.

We have a good time, my computer and I. Nothing of course can replace the "ones that went too soon" but this one's not bad. We are making our own "memories." I will clean it today with pure oxygen, and tonight I will defrag the hell out of it. I will also give it more RAM for Christmas if it behaves itself.

I try not to think about the time when it won't be here any longer. The day I will have to unplug it forever...

Tonight, I may give it a hug.

I'm God

"If you were God what would you feel,
do, or think about the world today. "


I'm God, and I'm pretty happy with the way things are on Earth. Planet Urdy, on the other hand, 21 light years away, is another story. I'll use discretion by saying if you don't like locusts, or unhealable boils, or hail mixed with fire, I wouldn't go visiting there any time soon.

Earth used to be my problem child until I sent an ambassador there several years ago and cleaned up the place. Sure, you still cuss, and I still hear my name said in vain, but that bothers me only if I'm actually listening; otherwise, I couldn't care less. Sin is still around, but I've gotten used to it. I don't like it, but I've gotten used to it. Put it this way: there used to be a hell of a lot more lightning bolts when I was younger. Now, I've gotten more mellow as I've aged (agelessly).

I don't visit Earth like I used to. Used to be, I was there every week. Now it's just another orb on my radar screen. Thank God! (Yes, I am allowed to say that.) Used to be, I had the route memorized. Now I have to pay attention.

Earth? I'm trying to think of some recent highlights. Some islanders got together the other day and asked me to put a thumb in their volcano, but that's not how things work I told them. Some bigwig offered to buy me a church or two if I could get him out of jail early, but I said there would have to be a virgin-volcano sacrifice, and I never heard back. A kid wanted a bicycle for Christmas, so I re-directed him to you-know-who.

I don't get involved as much as I used to, but I still help out. For instance, a lady prayed last week that she would get to work on time, so I relented and made a red light turn green early. Things like that please me. Some guy prayed his computer was not fried--it was--but I undid the damage, using a complicated algorithm that I came up with on the spot. It was a lot of work but worth it.

Overall, I'm very pleased with Earth, and its humans and especially its animals. The insects I'm still not keen on.

My next Big Visit will be approximately December 2012, but that's only to say "Hi," and I'm not sure if it will cause any waves -- or tidal waves.

Rendezvous

Image via Wikipedia

Writing challenge: A story that can be told backwards

She screamed. She moaned. He fired at her numerous times, with no ricochets. He was shaking quite a bit. Could he actually do it? Did she deserve it? She looked at him accusingly: When was he going to pull the trigger? He saw her open her eyes. She was very attractive. He was only wearing socks. She was completely naked. He was on top of her. They were in bed. She was his boss. It was ironic that their relationship ended up there. They were in the East Wing of the White House. He could hear a speaker going off down the hallway: "Mr. President, you are wanted in the Lincoln Sitting Room." He hoped he didn't get towed. Did they tow at the White House? He parked next to a Corvette but ended up blocking an official-looking limousine. He'd circled the House for twenty minutes looking for a parking spot.
He had clearance, so did she. They weren't worried about getting caught. They were going to rendezvous in the bedroom of the Lincoln Sitting Room. It was going to be a hot night. It was in the planning stages for days. He didn't dare back out. After all, she was counting on him. He doubled-up on his Viagra. He went doctor shopping. He had to be able to rely on 'ol Pete.' 'Ol Pete' is what he called his favorite gland (beneath his waist). His favorite gland above his waist was his salivary glands. He liked to eat. He wondered what she tasted like. She flirted with him ever since she found out he loved going on diets. He was into trends. She was trendy. He was starchily conservative even though he graduated Yale with a doctorate in Political Science and a mastery of frat partying. He was loyal to his Gators, and to his country. He was a redneck but with convictions. He was convicted of drunk driving but his GPA was so good he could have plowed into someone and still gone to an Ivy League school. He was a Gators fan even though he went to Yale.
He was definitely a Rebel. He came from a family of Rebels. His grandpa was Jezekiah Rebel, the famous Baptist minister. He didn't like ministers since they tended to "minister." He hated being talked down to. The only thing he didn't like about school, especially grade school, was being lectured to. He did very well in grade school in order to score with the hot chicks, but that got him nowhere, yet his GPA was high enough that middle schools across the country vied for his attendance. He was class clown in 4th grade, but got passed over in the 5th grade (for some reason), and mysteriously in the 6th grade too, but regained the title in the 7th grade, so he knew he could be a politician one day, because losing once in a while didn't seem to matter. He was going to be secretary of state, or screw the secretary of state.