Tuesday May 30, 2006

A memorial day.

I never knew my Father. He was killed on Iwo Jima, February 19, 1945. I was just a wee Irish lad, two and a half years old. I had to depend on the goodness of others to learn about my Father. There were, of course, my beautiful Sisters who held a picture of my young father up to my face, comparing the striking resemblance. But my Mother was the main source of his legend.
“I couldn’t help but love him,” she would say. “Our lives together were happy, and fun.”
When my Mother spoke sober, she refused to condemn his devil-may-care attitude. But late at night, with a few 'pops' in her, we would often hear her, in the kitchen, cussing at him for leaving her alone.
When I was arrested by the police, for breaking and entering, the guy who arrested me leaned back across the seat and began talking about my Father.
“Damn, he had five children!” Jack Johnson said. “He had no business going into the war! I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen!”
All the way down to the police station, on one of the worse days of my life, Lieutenant Jack Johnson talked about my Father. I knew, by the way he talked, that he loved my Dad. On that day, Jack was going in, and my Father wanted to go in with the rest of those guys.

My Dad’s sister, Florence, would send me pictures of their childhood together. They were like everybody else. They made mistakes, and sometimes they did things that were good. Life teaches us to learn. He was voted “Most likable” in high school; he was also voted “Most friendly”. (Aren’t they the same thing?). I really felt his life for the first time.

When I turned 18, my Aunt sent the package! (I never quite understood why my Mother didn't get these things! She wouldn't tell me!).
It had his letters to home, a watch he wore, his dog tags, an inscribed crucifix, and a small, flat, box. I opened it. There, embraced within a soft, aged, velvet nest of cloth, was my Father’s Purple Heart!
There are so few times when an emotional experience so overcomes you, that the tears flow so sudden, that you hope for the silence of anonymity, for fear of showing such a flood of emotion. A man isn’t supposed to cry.
For a long time, I felt the medal, and the watch, and his Crucifix. This was the closest I would come to being with him.
He was my Father; I was his only remaining son.

All during my hoodlum days, I gave little thought to what he did for us.
When my Mother died, I found his letters to her. They were filled with the life he lived. From the time he got rolled in San Diego, and someone stole his teeth (Teeth!); to the times he was carried, in a drunken stupor, back to the ship by his friends; to the Island where they went, just before the invasion. The letters, later released because of censorship, expressed the notion that, “We were going somewhere big,”. Up until those moments, I hadn’t given much thought to what he called, 'Our Lives!'.
In his letters, I read about Diana; there were references to Kay; he talked about ‘Sonny’, and Bubba Pete. Then I came upon this, “Little Jody”.
My God, that was me! I was his son; he was my Father.

I guess in the day-to-day struggle to survive, we go about trying to keep some reasonable sense of who we are, and what we do. In the end, we want to stand for something. We have our own little human lives to take care of; we all have our own Diana’s; we have our own Katie’s; we have our Sonny, and our Bubba; we have our “little Jody’s”.

But this one time, let the legends of these brave men, rise above ours. If these wonderful people don’t step forward, and give themselves for us, we cannot embrace who we are! So Father, forgive me for my ignorance.

For your life; for your sacrifice; for your death, I pledge my life to you. I say the words that I have never been able to say:

Thanks Dad, and I love you!
Little Jody.

The following events are fiction. Any resemblence to actual facts is pure luck!
And, I feel lucky! Now, here's the story!

Some time in the very near furture:

The president rushed into the room, followed by aides, security teams, and various people with coffee cups.
“Okay, what’s happened!” he, breathlessly, asked.
“Well sir,” replied his Chairman of the Chief Joint, “it appears we’ve been hit with another terrorist attack on American soil! By the way sir, I love your ‘jammies’. I had a pair just like that, but my wife made me get rid of them.”
“Why’s that?” the president asked.
“Why the attack, sir?” the chairman inquired.
“No!” the president reiterated, “why’d your wife make you get rid of your ‘jammies’? I really like these. They go real good with “Boo-Boo”, the wonder horse.” Skeptical looks abound about the room.
“Well,” the chairman continued, “she thought those were a little too, you know, ‘femmie’ for a General to wear. That’s when she found me those nice ones with the stars on them,” the general’s eyes lit up, in a five-star delight.
“Gentlemen,” the defense secretary interrupted, “can we talk about ‘jammies’ later. We are currently being attacked, you know!”
“Who’s attacking us this time?” the president asked.
“Oh yes,” Chief Joint, General Gay, came to his killitary senses, “it appears to be the same group as last time, sir.” the president whirled about in some cataclysmic confusion.
“The same bunch!” he became wire-eyed. “Weren’t they killed on the planes that hit the buildings?” A gray moment of imbecilic wonderment passed around the room, like a bottle of ‘hootch’, at a Frat party!
“No sir,” the chairman explained, “a different bunch of the same people.” A blank presidential stare arrived inside the president’s eyes.
“How can you be a different bunch of the same people?” the president was nearly eclipsed.
“Please Mr President, listen closely,” the chairman was almost intoxicated by the president’s stupidity. Everyone could tell, he’d been here before. “It is another group of terrorists, from the same religious following; you know, the “M’s”; but, they are from the same country. You know, your friends from Saudi Arabia?” the chairman winked the words into the president’s formidable skull! The president gazed about the room. There was a joke he hadn’t gotten yet.

“Ooooh!” he finally grasped aghast. His look morphed into anger.
“Well!” the president white-knuckled the polished table. His look clouded, in a humidifying gloom. “Get Abdullah on the phone,” he ordered. “These royal kids have gone far enough with their pranks!” he put his Power Ranger slippers up on the table, and folded his hands, almost presidential. “How many this time?” he asked. His defense secretary spoke.
“The numbers, so far, indicate about 4,000 Americans dead, and another several thousand wounded!”
“No, no, no!” one of the president’s slippers flew off, in a presidential rage, “how many of those little royal bastards attacked us?” the defense secretary gritted his teeth.
“Twenty sir,” he answered.
“Where at?” inquired the curious president.
“They hit us at the Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Seattle airports, simultaneously!” the secretary answered.
“Well,” the president put his feet back up on the table, “that should just about take care of the recording, and movie industries!” the room burst into joyful laughter. No matter how desperate the situation, they could always depend on the president’s crack humor, at the wrong moment!
The president looked around the room.
“Where’s the Vice President?” he asked.
“He’s in a UDL sir,” answered his national security advisor.
“UDL?” quizzed the president, “what’s a UDL?”
“Undisclosed location sir,” answered several people in unison.
“But, where is he–really, where is the Vice President?” the president urged.
“That cannot be divulged sir,” his head of security said. The president fumed.
“I’m the damn President!” the president’s Power Ranger jammies were smoking! “I want to know where the son of a bitch is at! Where’s he at?” a presidential fist hit the table. The president grimaced!
“I am sorry sir,” his Homeland Security Head said, “that is, strictly, EC!”
“EC!” the president was beginning to lose his morning nirvana, “what the hell is EC?” the president’s neck bones cracked, as veins appeared prominent.
“Execptionally classified sir,” the head of security answered, stiffly. The president pierced sideways, with his tongue in his pregnant-looking cheek. “Didn’t you get my memo sir?” the Homeland Secretary pleaded for understanding.
“You mean to tell me that I can’t even know that?”
“The Vice President wanted it that way sir,” the head of security said. “None of us can know that. All we do know is that he is in location # 47, according to the list.”
“Well, give me the list! Let’s look it up!” the president demanded.
“We can’t do that sir. Only the Vice president has the list of locations. Besides, he thought, if you were captured by the terrorists, you might–“
“Might what?”
“Well, he thought you might–you know, crack under pressure, and spill the beans, so to speak!”
“Me!–me crack!” why that dirty, wooly-eyed, deferment-getting, sheep fucker! How would he get an idea like that?”
“Well sir, you really are clutching “Boo-Boo” awfully tight! He’s losing some of his stuffing!” the president looked down at the Chinese granules all over the polished table. The men in the room corner-eyed each other.
“What’s that smell?” a voice, in the back, said.
“I smell it too,” said the president. “What is that?” A security agent came to front of the table.
“Sir, I’m going to have to check Boo-Boo,” he demanded. The president recoiled.
“No–oh no you don’t!” the president clutched Boo-Boo to his chest, away from the agent.
“Step away there, chief!” the agent reached for his side holster. The two men began fighting over control of Boo-Boo. Then it happened!

Boo-Boo’s stuffing broke open and spread all over the room, in powdered regale. A listening micro chip hit the table, slid off, landing in a planter, for further listening to conversations, in the future.
“Anthrax, Anthrax!” the agent screamed. “Clear the building; clear the building!” he screamed into his radio! “We have an attack on Boo-Boo, I mean the President!”

As they were all hustled out of the building, the president heard a laughing from behind.
“Okay, what is it, Tony,” he said to his press secretary.
“Sir, can I use any of this at the daily press briefing?” Tony answered. “Man, this gold! Jammies, the Vice President, Anthrax; man, I’m in heaven! I love this job!”
“Tony, you’re fired!” said the president.

After they got all of the individuals, from the room, quarantined, the president’s new press secretary came up to him.
“Boo-Boo,” Tony was still snickering. The defense secretary glared at Tony.
“This president must appear macho at all times, mister!” he insisted. “There will be nothing about ‘jammies’; there will be nothing about his Power Ranger slippers; and, there will be nothing about Boo-Boo leave this room–understood?”
“Yes sir,” Tony swallowed hard, as if he were a Chicken looking at a Fox!
“Sir I have Abdullah on the phone,” he, tentatively, said.
“Yeah Abbie,” the president talked into the phone, “this is ‘Junior’. We have a little problem here. Just what the fuck have those kids done, now?” the president listened, intently.
“Yes...yes, I know...yes, I know we’ve never won California or Washington. Hell, my Daddy didn’t either. That doesn’t mean you can blow the damn place up! What! You thought I wouldn’t mind? Jesus Abbie, I have to explain this to the American people! Yes...yes...well, how are we going to do that? We’ve already taken Iraq out! What do you guys want? How much of the competition do you want us to take out for you? Just because the Bushes are in charge doesn’t mean you can blow the shit out of us! Yeah, yeah, we’ll take care of them in time. Look, maybe we can get Israel to take Iran out! Is that okay? That would be easier to explain.” the president suddenly realized everyone was listening.
“Look, I’ll take care of this,” the president insisted. “For God’s sake, don’t do anything else until you hear from me...understood? All right, I think we can snow the people one more time!” Tony’s ears perked up!
“All right Abbie listen, tell Mummsy “hi!” for me. Yeah, see you then. And, tell them we’d better not hold hands any more. It doesn’t look good! All right, good bye.” the president hung up the phone.

Abdullah hung up the phone.
“You see sir, it was a piece of McMuffin,” Abdullah laughed.
“No, you mean, it was a piece of cake,” the Vice President corrected.
Yeah right, whatever,” Abdullah replied.

Joe
joesblog6 zapatashorse.com

Male enhancements!

The year is 2011; it is a year of vanity, so they say. You can replace body parts, you can have anything on your body changed. If you want something bigger, fatter, skinnier, longer-lasting–-BOOM!–you got it! And, of course, Penis transplants are all the rage these days. A guy can also have his Penis augmented and/or, surgically, implanted with a micro chip function, that allows a man to get erect or flaccid, on his own personal voice’s command.
Back in the early part of the decade, men were taking pills for male enhancement but, they proved to be unreliable, and sometimes down right dangerous! The side-effects caused weird, psychological, problems.
There was a very irritating commercial, for a male enhancement product, about a fictitious guy named “Ben”. This poor guy would come on the screen looking really goofy, with this half-insane smile. According to the story line, when he took this pill, he became some kind of super stud. Well, the guy actually did take the product in real life. He became so popular that women were storming his hotel room when they found out where ‘Ben’ was staying. He had just signed a huge movie deal as a result of the commercial’s success. He was driving home to Michigan when his car went over the edge of a rocky, mountainous, cliff. It seems, his penis began swelling. It came to the verge of ejaculation and, sure enough, Bob closed his eyes!
The next guy’s name was ‘Bill’. Bill died of AIDS!
The next one was ‘Joe’. His life was threatened thirteen times. Three times by angry Prostitutes, who needed to ‘score’ quick so they could make more money, but became impatient with his incessant erections! Two times he was assaulted by jealous ex-girlfriends. Four times he was assailed by jealous boyfriends. One time he was attacked by the ex-boyfriend of an ex-girlfriend. His ex-wife hired another ex-wife’s boyfriend to ‘hit him! The man came into his house, and shot him! He survived, and was finally killed by his Mother, who was a very religious member of the Al Bahanni cult! She was released on her own recognizance, and split with a strip club bouncer.
Then, there was ‘Peter’. He turned out to be celibate. When news got out, pill sales went down 40%! Peter, it turned out, wouldn’t allow his “peter’ to come within 200 yards of the pill! (That’s what they get for picking a guy named “Peter”!) Later that year, Peter joined the monastery. They kicked his ass out when they found Peter was the “pill guy”! So, Peter became a Televangelist and is owner of a 100-channel, trillion-dollar, Godopolis, called “God’s-pill”.
George was the final “pill guy”. While making a commercial for the “New improved!” pill, he began having complications from these new improvements. Men, it appears, weren’t quite happy with just erect penises; they wanted bigger ones too! There was just one little problem. One side affect of this pill was that it would also enhanced their damn noses! The company was immediately sued by forty seven woman, who had their eyes poked out, when they kissed men taking the pill. One woman’s family sued when she even died, thinking it was her man’s penis! When he sneezed, he blew her brains out! George died at the age of 47, from an extreme sinus condition. So much for the male enhancement pills.
There was such a crying need, from desperate men, to have someone, somewhere, in this great land, to come to their insecurity rescue. All they wanted were big old ‘wangers’ that worked, correctly, for God’s sake!
When it was announced that they were ready to begin this new electronic surgery, for male enhancements, every man in the world waited in line for this simple, but very expensive, procedure. There were even lesbians in the line. What the Lesbains didn’t realize was that by getting a penis, it made them nothing more than a man, and that was what their partners hated to begin with! Consequently, there were these reality talk shows all over TV about–“Why are all the Lesbians going straight?” Well, a big part of the reason was that all the male-oriented lesbians were getting penises and, they had so much fun becoming what they hated, that they competed with men, for their women, because they still hated men. You know what I mean?
Later, it was thought that, in their haste to makes fortunes, the company with the patent made a serious mistake. It seems some dick-head, at the factory in China, didn’t personalize the voice activation program on some of the chips! And, that is what this story is about.

Wilbert Evans was very a rich, old man. No one else could afford the two million dollar procedure. Wilbert Evans was also the very first man in the world to get a penis augmentation. His little wrinkled, and flabby dick was going to have an extreme make-over, making Wilbert’s cock the penis emeritus of this new age.
Wilbert’s life had become a dreaded drone of an experience, since he’d become unable to get a “stiffy”anymore! He was still the same, horny-ass, butt-patting, little wretch that he always was, before he couldn’t ‘salute the general at the great cave of infamy’ but, his saluter had become diluted! When a doctor friend of his (Wilbert knew, only, doctors and lawyers!), told him about the new procedure that could–“make a man, a man again! ” Wilbert went gah-gah! He was put on the list to have the procedure done. He was, of course, the first man on the list, because he knew only doctors and lawyers! That’s what happens when you know the right people, and you’re filthy rich. Wilbert got his penis augmentation done in May of that year. Even though Wilbert was a wrinkled old fart, he now had a functioning penis, that stood erect for his every whim and, even more important, he had a shit load of money, which was the most important part of being a manly man in America!
Wilbert stood in front of his full-length mirror that morning. He spoke a word, and his new, huge, penis flared up, in glorious splendor, rising fast up his wrinkled belly.

“Oh my God!” Wilbert thought, looking south, in tears, “you’re back! You’re back! My baby’s back!” he thought, to the mirror, with arms held out in praise! He might even ‘nail’ that cute, sexy, secretary of his. Oh God, the things he could do now! Of course, thinking about sex with a female again, didn’t cause Wilbert’s penis to erect itself; that part of his brain was still in the old mausoleum! Another good by-product of his glorious, new, penis; there would no embarrassing, sudden, public, erections. He hadn’t admired himself in a mirror for years. He’d become what he always hated--a doddering old man, with no life left in him. Now look at him. Wilbert squinted his eyes for a closer look. He even looked ten years younger. If you look it; you feel it; if you feel, you know it; if you know it, they know it! A big, and rare, practice-smile rippled his face. This would another part of “new self”.
“Thank God!” Wilbert thought to himself, as he donned his Jonathan Pierre Bujone briefs, he thought of all of the beautiful women he would have. At last, at last, he could cheat on his wife again!
Wilbert went into his wife, Mya’s, bedroom and leaned over to kiss her; it was another something he hadn’t done in years.
“Oh Wilbert!” his wife shoved him away, “for God’s sake, you know better than that! We don’t do that sort of thing anymore. Leave me alone.” Wilbert didn’t notice that his penis was erecting and deflating, as his wife spoke, because her voice spoke so muffled, and fast. Wilbert stood alone in his plush, New York, penthouse, living room. A smile congregated on his face. He imagined himself walking into the company headquarters, greeting Ms Fallette, another ‘nail’ albeit a French one, that he wanted to pound! After a smile, and a warm ‘good morning’, she would smile back at him, brightly, and throw every bit of her sex at him. He would let her have him by lunchtime. And the beautiful Ms Xavier, he would save for dinner.
So this was the big day–Wilbert Evans’ big day! He pulled his Andre Bolikovic slacks up, snuggly, onto his fat, and wrinkled old, frame. Fully dressed, he looked at himself in the mirror. Dressed to the ‘tens’, he traveled the elevator down to the lower floors. His offices were a mere block and a half away, from his plush, New York, penthouse. He would walk to work instead of taking the Limo. He felt just that good! Just prior to joining the busy throng, out in the bustling streets, his doorman was the first voice to speak to him.

“Good morning, Mr Evans,” he said cheerfully. Cheewong! Mr Evens’ proud, loving, member began to rise. He was about to panic.
“Jesus, what is that?” he exclaimed. Feelong! His proud, little general went soft. He breathed a momentary sign of relief, and walked towards the front door of the building. As Wilbert strolled the into the streets of this incredible maize of humanity, his penis became confused, in various stages of erection, and relaxation, because of the many voices it heard. He could feel its disarray, and confusion, beneath his silk, Jonathan Pierre Bujone, briefs. Disaster had reared its unpredictable head! He kept walking, not really knowing what else he could do. He would call the company from his office. Then a car back-fired. Holy shit! Wilbert’s erection became stiff, beyond control! Suddenly, other people’s heads tilted, in oddball speculation, as they could smell hair burning! They looked at him, quizzically.
Smoke began rolling from those very fine, silk, Jonathan Pierre Bujone, briefs. He, anxiously, began smacking his crotch with his newspaper.
“What’s he doing?” a woman exclaimed.
“Looks like he’s beating his meat!” a casual stranger said. Something was wrong and now, Wilbert could smell its disarray beneath his silk, Jonathan Pierre Bujone, briefs. It was even overpowering his, liberally-applied, cologne.
“My God!” one female bystander shouted, “his penis is on fire! His penis is on fire!” she ran out into the street, and was struck by a car. Wilbert was filled with a world of fear. Being old, and not knowing what else to do, Wilbert hit the concrete in dazed, horrific, fainting, shock, and went into cardiac arrest! A crowd soon gathered around poor old Wilbert, in unison. They expressed their dismay as he lay there in a coma-like state.
“Look!” one lady, hysterically, pointed, “his..ah, his ‘thingy’ is getting erect!” The crowd leaned to look closer, in unison. It was true; his penis would rise and fall, as the people talked. A poor homeless woman, had the reasonable sense to call the for an emergency team to come help the poor woman who had been hit by the car.
“What’s the problem here?” one of the paramedics asked bystanders. “Does anyone know what happened?” One person came shoving through the crowd, with a stolen shopping cart full of junk. She was old, and pretty snarly, looking. She had no teeth, to speak of; she was hunched and always chewing something, with her empty mouth. One woman, in the throng, noticed something that she, herself, had thrown away. Apparently, the old lady had picked it up.
“That is very nice blouse,” she told the old woman. “I wore that for ten years until my dumb-ass ex-husband ruined it by spilling wine all over it. We were at a party and of course he was drunk on his ass. He wanted to have sex right there, and then! Well, I just told him to “back off; maybe later”! He just plowed right in there, starting to tear my clothes off, right there at the party. He spilled his drink all over–“

”Shut the hell up, damn it!” the old lady interrupted. “Quit yer’ damn yapping ya’ dingy bimbo, and let me through!” In a toothless chew of something, the old lady turned, pushed her way towards the emergency medics, and yelled.
“What happened,” one of the paramedics said to the mesmerized crowd.
“I called about the woman out there, who was hit by a car, ya’ dumb shits! I think this one’s damn dick’s caught fire! I think you curly-cues outa’ take care a’ that woman, who all the cars are driving around. She’s layin’ in the damn street!” she said twisting whatever, was in her mouth. The paramedics ignored the old lady, preferring to work on the rich old man. They quickly undid his pants. The crowd, again, all leaned forward in speculative unison.
“The old fart was just walkin’,” the old lady continued, “when his crotch started a’ smokin’! Crotch just burst into flames! Damndest thing I ever saw! Looks ta’ me like the boy’s dick didn’t know whether to stand at ease, or salute!” the old lady laughed with herself. But even she was shocked when the paramedics opened his pants.
Oh, the humanity of it all! Wilbert’s entire crotch was a smoldering mass, in an unbelievable pile of gray ash. What was left of his penis was bleeping, and blinking, in a panicked, electronic, shut-down. The crowd, immediately, repelled (in unison of course)! The medics applied, ice to his wounds and gave him oxygen but it was too late. On the first day of his, “new self”, Wilbert Evans died on the streets, in an embarrassing display of his erotic, coming out party!

In a months-long lawsuit, Wilbert Evans’ family tried to sue the company that made the “Penis Enhancement Augmenter”, or PEA, for catching their Father’s penis on fire, and sending him into cardiac arrest. The company, Nodrah, Inc., was located in China and, wouldn’t honor American civil litigation.
So, the Evans family went to court to sue the surgeons. It was judged that the surgeons applied the device correctly. That was the only action they performed and that, if anyone was to be sued, it was the Chinese prison inmates, who put the devises together.
So, the Evans family sued the Chinese prison inmates, stating that they had lost their Chinese citizenship so, they weren’t really Chinese!
The Chinese prison inmates, who had all studied law while in prison, counter-sued the Evans family, for harassing and stalking them, and that they were in prison already, anyway! The Evans family lost, not only their suit against the company, but they lost to the Chinese Prisoners Coalition Union, or CPCU! They were ordered to pay the prisoners thirty million dollars, which the inmates used to buy there way out of prison, and into the Chinese Communist party. One even became chairman! The others gathered their money to invest in the American stock market.

The Evans family fortune soon ran into financial problems with all the forthcoming lawsuits. The surgeons sued them for making them look bad; the crowd, who gathered around poor Wilbert Evans, on that fateful day, even sued the Evans’ for making them look (in unison of course) at such a horrible, scene! The reason they had to look, was said to be, “curiosity”. Of course they won. Hell everybody’s curious!
After the Chinese Prisoners Coalition Union bought the Penis enhancement company out, they fixed the problem and man, after man, (and Lesbians), were provided with their new penises. Only the owner’s voice could activate it. They worked perfectly: “Up Jack!; down, boy!”; you just had to be careful not to talk too much while making love. You wouldn’t want to catch cute little lady on fire, now, would you?
The Chinacock Company expanded and soon had penis transplants. They began making deals with men who were either terminal, or old and ready to die. They would pay men for their penises, after their deaths. They took, only, penises that were seven inches long, or longer. The amount of money a man got for his penis depended on how long his penis was! A seven-incher got a guy $10,000.00. The price went up in half-inch increments. But, but, if a guy had a ten-incher or better, he got a cool million bucks, and I mean bucks! They hung like salamis in the Cockachin company’s warehouse refrigerator. Some guys didn’t want those really big ones. It appears they were afraid of being shot by jealous females, or jealous husbands, and boyfriends. You see, since these transplants began taking place, crimes of murderous passion had suddenly increased 63%!
The United States Senate, immediately, launched a “full scale investigation” into the prisoners’ motives. A big, fat, Senator named Oliver Bomblaster, railed against the company, from the senate floor.
“This heah company must be held responsible for these thirteen men, and one woman, who have had their penises catch own fahr (fire)!” the Senator bellowed. “It is mah belief that those prisonahs, deliberately, made those defective devices so that the company would go belly-up, from the law suits and, the prisoners could take over the company, with the money they got from theah lawsuit of the company! We need ta’ look into this sitchation!” The Congress launched one of those “full, and complete investigations” but, it fell through when it was discovered that eleven of the fifteen Senators on the Senate investigating committee, had serious conflict of interest, because they had penis augmentations! And, the chairman of the committee, Senator Phillips, owned stock in the prisoner’s company. He also had a penis augmentation!

As a prologue of this story, after Wilbert Evans’ death, his wife applied for, and got, a penis augmentation installed in herself, and ran off to Tahiti, with Wilbert’s cute, sexy, secretary. They were married in June of that year! Wilbert’s wife, Helen, was shot later that year by her cute, sexy, wife, for nailing Helen’s cute, sexy, wife’s cute, sexy, brother. It seems Helen had become what she always hated. The cute, sexy, wifette was sent to prison, where she became head of the Woman Prisoner’s Coalition. Three years later, they joined up with the Chinese Prisoner’s Coalition Union, and became a huge political force. Their intelligence network was the most sophisticated network in the world, and by 2028, they had candidates in every country. In 2042, they took over the world.
It just goes to show you that if you want to be something, or someone, different, you have to be careful you don’t attain something you hate; or, that you become what you hated about people in the first place! Does that make sense? Well, you know what I mean!

joe'sblog6 zapatashorse.com

Man, I am stoned. I see everything so clear now. It’s great to be so aware! Grass is great, and should be legalized!
No, you don’t think so? It would make the ‘streets’ unsafe?
There are not as many drugs on the street as there are in the average person’s medicine cabinet, in their home! There, you see? We even have a special cabinet for all our drugs! And, there is probably plenty of booze sitting around too.
So Joe, Your point is?
What are the damn reasons for not legalizing marijuana. (I love the sound of that word, marijuana man!)

1. “It would make the ‘streets unsafe!” you say.

My point is, that grass is tame, compared to booze! If people could smoke the good stuff, instead of boozing it up, that would make the ‘streets' safer! People wouldn’t drive! I don’t know about you, but when I smoke, I don’t drive–it’s scary, man! I get that paranoia-enclosed-inside-the-car feeling. Don’t you? It flat-out freaks my old ass!

2. “It leads a kid to get hooked.”

“Hooked” is a funny word. Funny, meaning odd. I could say I’m ‘hooked’ on milk because when I drank it, I liked it. Then, I went on to chocolate milk! Peanut butter, wow! What a trip!
No, ‘hooked’ is not the word to use. “Crave” would be better. (Ex: When he got ‘way high’, from his marijuana, he craved an even better high.). Isn’t that better. It makes Marijuana smokers seem like deviate slime-balls! We smokers would be placed in the sanitarium for ‘druggies’. That’s another word I love–‘druggies’. A druggy is a person who takes drugs. Ask any young person what a druggy is, and they will tell you same thing–a person who takes drugs is a druggie. Okay, but how about me. Oh, wait a minute, I’m a druggy! Take a normal person (hey, watch your typing, ass hole!); any normal person at all. They take drugs! They’re “druggies”! We need a set of new words to distinguish between the “druggies”, and the real ‘druggies’!
Okay, here’s a suggestion: Call marijuana smokers “Smokies”. Call upper drug-takers “Cravers”. Meth takers, since it is a stratospheric killer, should be called, “Asstroids”.

Sam Dean was a cop. He sat in his patrol car for most of the night. He popped a Vicadin to settle his nerves. He and his partner had just nailed three druggies. (I am assuming police conversations over the radio).
“Okay, we got a couple of smokies and an asstroid, here,” Sam yelled over the city noise.
“The ‘roid was dealing and the kids were buying,” he listened for the answer.
“What! Let these little shits go?” he yells. “I say, throw it at ‘em. Teach them a damn lesson. These little basards are gonna be shootin’ at us pretty damn soon! Well, damn it, we better nail this dealer! ”
While Sam Dean was wanting to “throw the book”-- his son, David, was across town about to be arrested for dealing drugs.

What the hell was that? God, where was I? Who am I? Who are you? Okay, third reason to keep Marijuana illegal:

3. “We have enough trouble with alcohol; we don’t need another reason that causes physical abuse, anger, and car wrecks!”

This person is, obviously, uneducated as to whether Marijuana would cause accidents. Marijuana smokers do not slur speech, do not stagger, but perform all actions equally, if not better. Their only problem is, they’ll be exceptionally happy, very hungry, and I mean hungry as hell! Twinkies with Ice cream is absolute Nirvana. Boy, now there’s a cool word–nirvana. Man, that is the Dog’s Bark! When you’re eating that stuff, and the ice cream drips from your mouth, what a great goof that is, man. You’re trying to jam as much of that euphoric goodness into your mouth, as you possibly can! God, it’s good!
Seriously, drunken workers are dangerous; Marijuana workers are happy! They see the sheer hypocrisy, when the higher-up people walk through the plant. They really think their turds are gold. Those people are as funnier than two poets in a fist fight. Watch them-- as you work, of course. You will know exactly what they are thinking. Exactly! What a hoot that was!

4. “Drugs are bad for people.”

Yeah well, you got me there, pal! Yes, drugs are bad for people. Yes sir, my drugs have even rendered me impotent; they have my brain practically fried; yeah, they’re bad for people. But, and this is a big but, I wouldn’t be alive without them!
Sometimes, I have trouble sleeping. I took Ambien, and I slept, but my temper flared. I had a very short fuse, and that’s not my personality. It changed me, in a bad way! Now Marijuana did the trick! I could rest out on MJ. I could stretch out, have Twinkies, and Ice cream, and watch Sponge Bob Squarepants on the tube, man!
He’s always in his underwear. I think Sponge Bob is probably a little bit of an exhibitionist; maybe a little ‘gay’ too! Not the there’s anything wrong with gay people. Hell, I like all happy people!
Yeah, drugs are bad for people. But not as bad as a thick, juicy, 1/4 pound cheeseburger. God, I’d like one right now–and I mean–NOW, damn it! I’d take it home while it’s still hot, put more pickle and onion on it, and eat the fucking shit out of it, goddamn it! They NEVER put enough pickle and onion on it! Why is that? One more pickle, you ass holes. That’s all I ask! One more fucking slice of goddamn pickle, and a few more chips of fucking onion, damn it! What’s wrong with you guys? Hey, wait a minute! You younger ones out there; maybe you work at Hardee’s or Mc (damn)Donald’s; go out there on that limb for us. Put another slice of fucking pickle on the damn cheeseburgers! Go ahead, put a few more chips of onion on that son of a bitch! Do it! Just do it!
My doctor was treating mer for high cholesterol. It was after my second Cancer, so he was encouraging to get out there and work a little bit. Then, he mentioned me working McDonald’s! We both burst out laughing. I would have eaten the menu, baby! My cholesterol would have been 2,000! When I was released from the hospital, I suddenly had a weight problem. This was foreign to me. I was always on the small, skinny side (I mean my body, damn it! Get your minds out of the gutter!). For me to work at McDonald’s, would be like George Bush teaching me how to fly a plane!
Did you guys know that Sponge Bob has this terrible phobia about driving vehicles? What do ‘ya suppose is the hidden meaning there?
“I know! I know!
“Yes, you over in the corner, what is the hidden meaning behind Sponge Bob’s phobia at driving vehicles?”
“He smokes weed, sir! He has this, fear-of-being-enclosed inside-of-a-car, feeling!”
Hey, me and Sponge Bob are bros, man! We both have that phobia about driving after smoking! But, I’m not gay, man!
Not that there’s anything wrong with that; I’m very happy the way I am! I just wish I wasn’t so fucking old!
Where was I? Oh, I know!

5. “Marijuana leads young people to the need, to go to more, and worse, drugs.”

That doesn’t read right. I think I should have worded that different. Too late; it’s already out there! I smoked all the time while in Korea. The Army taught me how to drink, smoke, kill, and swear! I even learned Jesus’ middle name! It’s ‘Fucking’–Jesus Fucking Christ!
It was the best man, the grass I mean!
This friend of mine and I, smoked weed whenever, and wherever we could. We would think alike, you know what I mean? Me and Wiesmer were sitting out front of the barracks, outside of C Company, home to “the big, green Buffalo”, in Kamp Kaiser, Korea. We were draftees and, being that, we didn’t give a damn about the military bull shit! Don’t get me wrong; we were both damn good soldiers; we just didn’t like that marching shit; and that dressing alike shit; and that inspection shit, and those goddamn, 5:30 am formations! That was all a fat ass, military, government, esprit de corp, joke anyway!
Anyway, we were so high and, diggin’ the day, when we saw Sargent Harrison coming. William Henry Harrison (yeah, like his Father had bigger expectations). So, this E-7 Sargent in the Army, after 23 years, was coming towards us; and, his life was beginning to end. We knew that! He knew that! He was a good block and a half away. We watch every single movement he made. His fresh morning, stiffly pressed, olive drab, fatigues, rustled to the beat of his pathetic military life. Wiesmer and I thought alike.

“Doesn’t he realize how stupid he looks?” Wiesmer said. "Look at him! if someone gave a command right now, he'd get a goddamn erection!" Even at that distance, we heard each boot, as it hit the ground; we heard him counting, in his head, so he didn’t dare misstep. The sound was so silent, and violent, that it raged into our high. He became part of our highness. We gladly let him in, knowing him so very well. Sargent Harrison even marched when he walked, with each step in perfect cadence (accept when he was drunker than ten bums in a brewery). All the way down, we watched him, ‘goofing on him’, picking apart his every movement and, letting him into our world. He got closer, and closer. When he got within twenty feet of us, we both knew exactly, what he was going to do. We had been up in his mind for, roughly, two minutes. We knew all of his moves, and his motives, from observing him during company commands. Those are the 5:30 am formations that the officers don’t want to take care of, so they dump it on the fat-ass, jerk-off, ‘lifer’ assed, Sergeants. He was right in front of us. There he was, the “big guy”. His brain prepared his arm, as it moved, almost, too early. We saw the index finger begin to form the gun barrel; or was that a salute coming? His hand stiffened, for his greeting.
“Don’t salute, you prick! Don’t salute,” we both thought. “Do the other one. Come on, do the other one, man.” I saw Wiesmer’s anxiousness. We knew he was probably pretty chipper; it being early morning; and him, heading for the Officers Club, for his morning crash-breaker. We knew he would do one, of two things: He would either, salute, which was his way of reminding us exactly, where we were; or, he would just shoot us, which he thought was his way of showing us that, even though he was a senior Sargent, he was just “one of the guys”. Sure he was.
“Oh oh!” Wiesmer said, “ he’s gonna kill us! Jesus, we’re gonna die!” he thought out loud. His mouth opened wide and, the look lasted for centuries, indelibly, imprinting his stark look of terror on our brains. There was this uproarious laughter just behind the ‘look’; we were going to live all day on this moment.
“How’s it goin’ boys?” Sargent Harrison bellowed, as he kept his military cadenced, while making the gun, with his stiffened hand. He slammed his thumb down, shooting imaginary bullets at both of us. The big, morning, crash-breaker’s, smile bent his face, into cemetery. When the imaginary bullets hit us, we jerked, dramatically, from the strike of the missile and, immediately rolled off the steps, in great agony, pretending to be shot, and killed! Two more casualties for the great Sargent Harrison. Surely, ‘the powers’ would drape medals on him for this act. For lifers like Harrison, smart-asses, like me and Wiesmer, were worse than any North Viet Namese, black pajama guys.
As he walked away, we heard Sargent Harrison mutter to himself, “smart ass mother fuckers!” Sargent Harrison went bailing out of our high! We rejoiced in our mission of, bringing down his hangover morning. Now some might think I’m being a little too hard on old Sargent Harrison. But damn it, that’s what he gets for being a 23-year soldier...and still being a goofy, big, fat, and dumb ass, Sargent! The Sargent didn’t smoke, or swear in front of his men; unless provoked, of course. We provoked him! the Sargent was very devout also. A drunken Christian; just what Jesus needs!
I would guess that Sargent Harrison weighed, oh, in the neighborhood of 300 pounds. He was definitely big, fat, and loud! Most of his alcoholic weight sloshed around inside his bulky belly. And yes, he was the man that the Brigade Commander thought of, that year, to play Santa Claus for the orphan kids, at the Commander’s Christmas Party. There is an orphanage in every city, outside every Military Camp, in Korea. Why is that?... because they’re our kids!!! These little guilt-trip, holiday, do-goodys, for the Orphans were just our way of thanking all of the Prostitutes of South Korea, who took such good care of us, all these many years. Harrison was a perfect Santa, as long as he didn’t go blubbering all over his beard, and one of our kids. He really hated us. This was in 1967 and I am sure the Sargent’s kids hated him! Who couldn’t? We went into a laughing frenzy that lasted all day. He was a ‘fit’, man, crying and pissing on himself! Yeah, he pissed his damn pants! God, it was a beautiful day to be a soldier.

One morning he was giving Company announcements, prior to the arrival of Lieutenant Virtue. Yes, that’s right! Lieutenant Bradley Lewis Virtue. What a crock! So, Sargent Harrison is giving announcements and, Wiesmer is cracking after every single sentence.
“No men, you WILL go on morale break this morning! You WILL go to the cafeteria, during morale break! And, you WILL enjoy the show that the “Doughnut Dollies” put on! Some morale break. Our morale break was going back to fucking bed!
“All right, does anyone have any questions?” the Sarge blurted. “Wiesmer, you seem to have something to say, how about it?”
“Yes sir, I have a question!” Wiesmer said, very militarily. “Sir! Would you do a little toe-tapping for us, sir?”
“Well, no I don’t think so,” said the goofy, fat, Sargent, with a rare smile. “Maybe you’d like to come up here and entertain us. Come on up!” Wiesmer went up to the 2-foot wall in front of the company and began, doing that “routine” shuffle that we’ve seen a million times, in movies and on television. He ended it by clicking his heels! Then, he slowly morphed into Howdy Doody, the little puppet from the Howdy Doody show. I caught it, man! It was brilliant! Hanging on his imaginary strings, he jerked towards Sargent Harrison and spoke:
“Well, ooh, golly gee, Sargent Harrison; where did you get all those nice green clothes?” Harrison was hotter than french-fried Arizona. He had to strain to keep it in check
“Get the fuck off here,” the Sargent demanded, whispering. Wiesmer tippy-toed back into formation, like the puppet he was. The laughter was so loud, and out of control that Harrison dismissed us, even before Lieutenant Virtue got there. We all patted Wiesmer for getting us back into the barracks, for a morale break, with the “Doughnut Dollies”. It was one of the few times Wiesmer was well-liked. For some reason, still unknown to me, he was very disliked, from the ranks, up to the officers. I thought it was because he blew weed but, hell, who didn’t ? Then, I thought maybe it was his looks; you know, he was one of these guys, who just didn’t give one shit what happened or, what he looked like. That is what eventually, got him in trouble. An officer demanded he: “Blouse those boots, soldier!” Wiesmer refused: “No, I don’t think so, sir.” he saluted sarcastically. He ended up in Ascom prison for possession. He ended up in prison, with killers, rapists, and thieves, for having .05 ounces of grass on him. When I requested that Sargent Harrison, and Lieutenant Virtue allow me to visit him, I was refused. I left Korea shortly after that. I never got to see him again. I hope you’re okay, my good friend.

Now, let’s see, where was I. Oh, bigger and better drugs! Did you see that? I almost typed ‘frugs') god, I crack me up! I gotta go, man. But, hey listen, it was good typing to ya’. You take care now. And, don’t smoke Oregano! It sucks!

I love you guys, Joe
zapatashorse.com

Night of the be-bops.

“There is a wind upon these plains that is son to the Air.
It brings it’s hand to lay abreast and, feel the heartbeat of the Earth.
There is breath wind that takes our flames
from the grounded masses along the river.
The feet that walk the shore of the human soul
can only be corrupted by the bounds of the man-made cage.
Systems placed before the human spirit force its reluctance
to worship its institutions.
There is a wind. It whispers no shame that spends the day
upon the vagrant shores. When Gospel contends, no time is too far.
We may anytime, begin again, the journey.
No time is too late; no edge too far; no wall too great;
to understand the fluttered foil of our trees to help a human being
lift their eyes. No dream becomes trumped by the night’s rite.
So, it begins to end; and, its closing opens.”

-Mathman (George Cooper) from "Zapata's Horse: The Book of While"
About a band called "Zapata's Horse".
Also about young While McCann, who joins in their journey for understanding.