Jun 022011
 

Some peo­ple col­lect stamps, oth­ers col­lect com­mem­o­ra­tive thim­bles, and Phil Moss col­lects bags of chips.  But don’t refer to it as an unusual hobby, because, to Moss, a 54-year-old land­scaper from St. Louis, Mis­souri, it’s a mat­ter of life and death.

The jog­gers and New Age junkies are going to kill us!” Moss believes that as more peo­ple engage in car­dio exer­cise, they’re breath­ing more than their fair share of air.  Fur­ther­more, med­i­ta­tion has grown in pop­u­lar­ity, result­ing in more peo­ple sit­ting cross-legged on floors every­where and inhal­ing big buck­et­fuls of oxygen.

The flow­ers just can’t keep up,” Moss said.  “Take a look around you and see how the daisies are pant­ing to keep up with car­bon diox­ide pro­duc­tion.  They just can’t do it!”

Another threat is the sex­ual rev­o­lu­tion.  As more and more peo­ple engage in more fre­quent sex­ual activ­ity, their breathe more rapidly and use more air.  “It’s not enough that their pro­duc­ing more lit­tle mouths that need more air, but as they get off, they’re going to breath more of my air!”  Moss believes that we should remem­ber that sex is for procreation–not recreation–and if one must engage in sex­ual inter­course, inhale a bit of your partner’s oxy­gen while kissing.

When asked about Moss’ the­ory, Pamela Clif­ford of the Clean Air Insti­tute said, “He’s just full of a lot of hot air.”

So, what does all this have to do with col­lect­ing bags of chips, which Moss stores in an under­ground bunker behind his home?  “I’m sav­ing air for when all these self­ish peo­ple use up all of the air.   Those jog­gers won’t have enough air to run to me and cry, nor will those med­i­ta­tors have any oxy­gen left to drag their cross-legged asses to my house and beg for oxy­gen.  I’m just going to open up a bag of Dori­tos, inhale, and laugh in their suf­fo­cat­ing faces.”  Moss pauses a moment.  “Well, I prob­a­bly won’t laugh, because that’s just wast­ing oxy­gen.”  And Moss adds another group to his list.

May 122011
 

When State Sen­a­tor Joel Gille­spie (Rep.)  and State Rep­re­sen­ta­tive Bucky Brew­ster (Dem.) pitched cel­e­brat­ing Blame Some­one Else Day in their home­town of Kissimeecoochee, Geor­gia, it was with the hopes of putting dif­fer­ences aside and hav­ing some fun. How­ever, their play­ful plan back­fired and now both politi­cians are point­ing fin­gers at each other.

Who says pol­i­tics has to be seri­ous all the time?” Gille­spie asked from his office at the Uni­ver­sity of Georgia’s Depart­ment of Duct Tape Research, where his research team has recently devel­oped a coat­ing to make the handy­man favorite bul­let­proof. “Bucky and I believe that we can joke around and get things done in Atlanta.”

Brew­ster, Pres­i­dent of Bucky’s Chick­en­fried Chow for Cats & Dogs, a con­tro­ver­sial deep-fried pet food that can be fed to either species, agreed. Wear­ing a fake arrow acces­sory that looks as if he had been shot through the head by a Native Amer­i­can, Brew­ster elab­o­rated. “I ran into Joel at all-you-can eat salad bar at Aunt Hattie’s Veg­i­t­ar­ian Steak­house after the leg­isla­tive ses­sion, and we found that we were both tired of all this bipar­ti­san crap. We decided the best way to bring pub­lic ser­vants back together was to set an exam­ple. And since politi­cians are noto­ri­ous for pick­ing on each other, we thought we’d have some fun with this Blame Some­one Else Day.

It started inno­cently enough with Brew­ster blam­ing Gille­spie for the empty-space-to-potato-chip ratio in potato chip bags now. Sen­a­tor Gille­spie responded back with Brew­ster being respon­si­ble for can­dy­bars not tast­ing the same as when he was a kid. How­ever, as the day went on, accu­sa­tions pro­ceeded to become more inflam­ma­tory, with Gille­spie blam­ing Brew­ster for acid reflux, homo­sex­u­al­ity, fat-free cheese, and Paula Abdul leav­ing Amer­i­can Idol. Brew­ster, in return, blamed Gille­spie for McDonald’s no longer offer­ing the big­gie size option for their combo meals, Lady Gaga, prostate can­cer, and spawn­ing chil­dren so ugly that they made anal warts look cute. After such vit­ri­olic com­ments, per­haps the most sur­pris­ing thing is that no one noticed.

Skip Bot­toms, 32, of Topp 2 Bot­toms Realty, summed it best. “I’m so used to the Repub­li­cans and Democ­rats blam­ing each other, any­way, that it just seemed like busi­ness as usual, so I didn’t really pay attention.”

Nei­ther Brew­ster or Gille­spie chose to com­ment on Bot­toms’ state­ment, but Dr. Brett Ellis of Kissimeecoochee did offer to give Sen­a­tor Gille­spie a buy-one-plastic-surgery-get-the-second-plastic-surgery-half-off for his twins. Dr. Ellis says he also spe­cial­izes in anal rejuvenation.

May 052011
 

Megan Druthers has a prob­lem with OMG! I Can’t Believe This Could Be Any­thing But Butter–she can’t believe it’s any­thing but but­ter, which is why she’s suing Ol’ Bessie Indus­tries, the maker of the but­ter substitute.

OMG! I Can’t Believe This Could Be Any­thing But But­ter tastes too creamy, too but­tery to not be but­ter,” said Druthers.  “In fact, it tastes so good that I can’t help but look for other things to spread it on.”

Hence, the prob­lem:  Druthers recently started Weight Watch­ers to lose 20 lbs. before her high school reunion this sum­mer.  “I’ve got to look skin­nier than those bitch cheer­lead­ers from high school who always made fun of my weight.  But as Druthers strug­gled to deter­mine whether OMG! I Can’t Believe This Could Be Any­thing But But­ter, she began look­ing for other things besides toast to spread the but­ter sub­sti­tute on. “I sud­denly became afraid to eat any­thing, because I didn’t want to change using all of my points on but­ter.  I began to won­der that per­haps Ol’ Bessie was try­ing to pre­vent me from los­ing weight by dis­guis­ing calo­rie dense but­ter with OMG! I Can’t Believe This Is Any­thing But Butter.”

At first she started with muffins, a piece of bread, and pop­corn; yet when the these tasty treats ran out, Druthers reached for pot­pourri, Vel­cro, and Sty­ro­foam pack­ing peanuts.  “The pot­pourri wasn’t really that bad, because it’s fiber,” said Druthers, “But the the Vel­cro is hard to pass, because it’s catches on to the … um … fine body hair around the anus.”  How­ever, when the pot­pourri, Sty­ro­foam pack­ing peanuts, and Vel­cro ran out, Druthers moved onto people.

I’d put a scoop of OMG! I Can’t Believe This Is Any­thing But But­ter on my chil­dren, which I called ‘spread­ing love’ and licked it off, but my kids com­plained when I did this while their friends were vis­it­ing.”  Her hus­band didn’t stand for this, either, and hid the tub of OMG! I Can’t Believe This Is Any­thing But But­ter.  When she began expe­ri­enc­ing delir­ium tremors, she snuck out of the house and drove to the super­mar­ket to stock up.

Things came to a head, though, when UPS deliv­ered a pack­age to Druthers’ home dur­ing a her mid-morning rice cake with OMG! I Can’t Believe This Is Any­thing But But­ter.  “When the deliv­ery dri­ver bent over to pick up the pack­age, I couldn’t get over how much his uni­form made his butt look like a golden brown bran muf­fin with a pat of but­ter, so I slathered some OMG! I Can’t Believe This Is Any­thing But But­ter on it and took a bite.”

But it wasn’t but­ter sub­sti­tute that led to assault charges.  When Druthers bit into the UPS driver’s butt, she removed a siz­able chunk of flesh.  “I don’t remem­ber swal­low­ing, but by the time they rushed me to the hos­pi­tal and pumped my stom­ach, the doc­tor said I had prob­a­bly already digested the chunk of tissue.”

Manny Romero is now suing Druthers for emo­tional dis­tress due to deformed but­tocks, and lost rev­enue since he can no longer moon­light on an adult web­site that caters to gay men with a fetish for siz­able der­ri­eres, www.BustThatBubbleButt.com.

I blame Ol’ Bessie Indus­tries,” Druthers said.  “If I could tell that OMG! I Can’t Believe This Is Any­thing But But­ter was not really but­ter, none of this would have happened.”

 

Apr 282011
 

Even thought Pres­i­dent Obama released his birth cer­tifi­cate ear­lier this week, con­tro­ver­sies still con­tinue to swirl around whether he is eli­gi­ble to serve as Pres­i­dent of the United States.

Astrol­o­gist Andie Pearl states that she doesn’t believe that Pres­i­dent Obama is a true Leo.  “All the signs point that he’s actu­ally an Aries, and you know what that means.” When pressed for clar­i­fi­ca­tion Pearl explained that Aries have great gusto for start­ing projects, such as bring­ing the coun­try out of an eco­nomic depres­sion.  “They’re also prone to head injuries,” Pearl elab­o­rated.  “And that puts Hillary just one step closer to the presidency.”

Where’s the beef?” Duke Burling­ton, Pres­i­dent of the Sons of the Repub­lic of Texas Suc­ces­sion and Gun Club, demanded.  “I don’t think there’s any meat to him; I think he’s made of tofu!”  Burling­ton revealed his the­ory that Obama is actu­ally a sophis­ti­cated ani­ma­tronic robot cre­ated from mashed soy beans by rad­i­cal lib­eral hip­pies who want to take away meat from all God’s chil­dren and force them to become veg­e­tar­i­ans, which is the pre­ferred menu of Satan.  “Haven’t you noticed that when Obama walks, he kind of jig­gled like tofu when you take it out of the pack­age?  Also, he tends to take on the polit­i­cal fla­vor of what­ever politi­cians seem to be around–just like stir fry­ing tofu!”

If you ask me, Bubba is an alien,” begins Sparky Scut­tle­butt, ama­teur clog­ger and greeter at the Super Wal­mart in Grizzly’s Hiney, Texas.  “He has that big bul­bous head, like an alien, and if you com­pare pho­tographs, you’ll notice that some­times his ears and nose dis­ap­pear, like artist con­cep­tu­al­iza­tions of those abducted by Venusians–and you can’t get any more ille­gal alien than that!’  Scut­tle­butt believes the only way to get to the bot­tom of the brouhaha is for Pres­i­dent Obama to sub­mit to an anal probe.  “If I had to be in the same room with him, I would make sure that I never had to turn my back on him, and if I had to, I would def­i­nitely clench my butt cheeks together.”

Apr 212011
 

Brick John­son, a pop­u­lar Los Ange­les male escort, told weekly tabloid The Dirt Also Rises that he has been involved in a homo­sex­ual rela­tion­ship with car­toon char­ac­ter Sponge­Bob SquarePants for the past year.

We met in a dive bar on the edge of West Hol­ly­wood, Flot­sam and Jet­sam. I wasn’t look­ing to turn a trick that night, but when I saw Sponge­Bob across the dance floor, I sud­denly craved salt water,” John­son said. “Of course, when I saw SpongeBob’s eyes bug out about six inches from his face and his tongue fall out on the floor, I knew the feel­ing was mutual.”

The chem­istry between the two was so pal­pa­ble that the Nick­elodeon star asked the well-built hus­tler to come home with him. John­son did.

In this line of work, you get used to see­ing the kinky stuff, but I wasn’t pre­pared for what Sponge­Bob wanted me to do.” Johnson’s hand shook as he tossed back the rest of his scotch. “Sponge­Bob stripped and knelt down. He looked up and said, ‘Pee on me.’ I hes­i­tated, but he got in my face and screamed at me to pee onto him … so I did.”

How­ever, once Sponge­Bob was heav­ily sat­u­rated with Johnson’s urine, he pulled out a roll of Bounty paper tow­els and demanded to know from John­son whom the quicker picker upper was. When pressed about SpongeBob’s pref­er­ences in bed, John­son remained mum, but did share that his nick­name for Sponge­Bob was “Bikini Bot­tom.” The cel­e­brated car­toon char­ac­ter also hid a fond­ness for eat­ing snails off of Johnson’s naked behind, while singing “Gary, Indi­ana” from the musi­cal The Music Man.

Some­times when we were hav­ing sex, he’d call me Patrick, which was a mood killer.” John­son said that he never felt that SpongeBob’s best friend and neigh­bor ever liked him. “It was like he didn’t think I was good enough for SpongeBob–or he was jeal­ous, or something.”

In addi­tion to being quite gen­er­ous, John­son revealed that Sponge­Bob was not only highly intel­li­gent, but an affec­tion­ate lover. “When we held each other in bed, after­wards, Sponge­Bob would fan­ta­size about lead­ing a life like ordi­nary peo­ple, where he and I could walk down the street, hold­ing hands, and invite their neigh­bors and friends over for, you know, bar­be­cues and orgies and stuff.”

John­son states that SquarePants desired to come clean about his life, but Nick­elodeon kept remind­ing him to think about his fans, the role model didn’t want to let the chil­dren down. “I think that’s what drove him to drink and start using drugs.”

In addi­tion to sub­stance abuse issues, Sponge­Bob was also haunted by the ghost of a for­mer love. “Sponge­Bob used to really big into the repressed gay spa sub­cul­ture,” John­son said. “Although he never came out and said it, I think John Tra­volta broke his heart, and Sponge­Bob never got over that. He refused to ever let me play the Grease sound­track in his presence.”

Even­tu­ally, booze, drugs, and the shadow of a for­mer lover proved too much for John­son to take. “I wished things could have ended dif­fer­ently,” John­son rem­i­nisces. “I still love Sponge­Bob, and the times we took baths together and Sponge­Bob exfo­li­ated me are mem­o­ries that I’ll always cherish.”

Apr 142011
 

The Church of Saint Fran­cis of Fifi in Bald Knob, Arkansas has demanded that Cher be can­on­ized as a saint.  After win­ning the Amer­i­can record­ing artist, actress, and tele­vi­sion personality’s ribs off eBay last sum­mer.  Since that time, the relics (as Cher’s ribs have become known) have healed sev­eral mem­bers of the con­gre­ga­tion and the Bald Knob Gay Men’s Chorus.

After being touched by the relic, Roger’s lisp van­ished,” Doug Quat­tle­baum, Direc­tor of the Bald Knob Gay Men’s Cho­rus noted.  “Kenny’s gon­or­rhea dried up, and Chip’s leak­ing implant was saved.  It was a miracle!”

Quat­tle­baum, who also serves as the musi­cal direc­tor for The Church of Saint Fran­cis of Fifi, keeps Cher’s alleged float­ing ribs , which were sup­pos­edly removed in the ‘90s to make her waist appear smaller, in a Bob Mackie gown and placed on a scale model of the set for The Cher Show.  “Some­times I just sit, hold­ing the Relic and singing “Gyp­sies, Tramps & Thieves,” and I can just feel power ema­nat­ing from the ribs.“
When asked if he really thought that he held Cher’s float­ing ribs–especially since she has denied that she has ever had such surgery, Quat­tle­baum paused, before lean­ing for­ward and ask­ing me if I believed in life after love.  He also said that he thinks it’s absurd that any­one has to be dead before they can be can­on­ized.  “Really!  What’s the point of being a saint if one’s not alive to enjoy it?”

Tahalia Roper, The Church of Saint Fran­cisc of Fifi cred­its Cher’s miss­ing ribs with sav­ing her mar­riage.  “I had burned a whole pot of gravy and didn’t know what to do with it.   Quat­tle­baum allowed her to hold the ribs until she received an answer:  Put it any­where it doesn’t burn.  Nei­ther the gravy or Mrs. Roper’s gravy went to waste.

When asked about the where­abouts of her ribs,  Cher had no comment.

 

Mar 312011
 

I’ve learned to expect any­thing when I ride MARTA–and that’s half the fun.  Whether it’s a man who squeals and holds a toy light saber at imag­i­nary Stormtroop­ers, or the tooth­less woman who winks at me and tells me she’s God’s gift to men, I usu­ally smile and go about my busi­ness.  Not so yesterday.

So that’s how it is, is it?” the man yelled into his cell phone.  He was seated behind me on the east­ern bound train toward Decatur.  I was try­ing to read, but resigned myself to the fact that at least my stop was next and I could escape this man soon.

Show me the birth cer­tifi­cate, then!”  Oh no, it’s the Obama birth cer­tifi­cate again.  I turned the page, but I won­dered whom the man was speak­ing with.  An attor­ney?  Con­stituency ser­vices?  A poor AT&T cus­tomer ser­vice rep­re­sen­ta­tive out­side of Delhi?

And I’m telling you, Don­ald Trump wants to see my birth certificate–my birth certificate–no one else’s!”  The man beat his chest with his free hand, like a lazy King Kong imper­son­ator.  I won­dered why Don­ald Trump would want to see this man’s birth cer­tifi­cate.  The train started to pull into the Inman Park Sta­tion, so I stood up.

I got a good look at the man.  Although he didn’t appear home­less, he had a scrag­gly beard and a weath­ered face.  He was dressed in ath­letic shoes, jeans, and a sweat­shirt.  I also noticed that he was talk­ing on a Fisher Price cell phone.  He wasn’t talk­ing to anyone.

Well, let me tell you some­thing,” the man shouted.

The doors opened, and I dis­em­barked the train.

Mar 242011
 

While vis­it­ing a friend in Jack­sonville, Florida, I wan­dered into a small book­store where the owner still used on old-fashioned cash reg­is­ter that only had keys for a penny, a nickel, and a quar­ter, and a large slot machine han­dle. He demon­strated how he rang up a sale, which was a a labo­ri­ous process that resem­bled Wi fit­ness more than a mon­e­tary calculation.

On my drive back to Atlanta, it dawned on me that I hadn’t seen a “¢” key for ages. In fact, the last time I remem­bered a “¢” key being present on a key­board was in my col­lege typ­ing class. I real­ized it didn’t bode well for “¢” key since type­writ­ers aren’t often found in the mod­ern busi­ness. When I worked for an insur­ance com­pany many years ago, we once required a type­writer to com­plete a spe­cial form. We combed all 18 floors to track down an old Smith Corona, then stared at it, as we tried to fig­ure out how to turn it on.

I sup­pose it doesn’t help that every­thing costs more these days. After all, what can you buy for a penny, any­more? Just the other day, I offered a friend’s lit­tle girl a penny for her thoughts. She informed me that due to infla­tion, her thoughts now went for a min­i­mum of a nickel.

A few months ago, I con­fused one of the younger book­sellers at the book­store by writ­ing “3¢ over” on the cash drawer log. “What does this mean?” she asked, point­ing at the “¢” sign.

It’s a cent sym­bol,” I said.

She blinked at me.

You know, if the amount is less than one dollar.”

Why don’t you just write ‘$0.03′?”

Because it requires less strokes of the pen to write ‘3¢,” I said. “Besides, I like the cent sym­bol.” She stared at me, her face blank. “It’s retro.”

Ah …” She nod­ded her head in under­stand­ing, and then adopted the sym­bol herself.

So, I did some research to find out what sym­bol took the place of the “¢” sym­bol on the com­puter key­board. As it turns out, it’s the “^” or caret, which is Latin for “it lacks” and is used in proof­read­ing to indi­cate miss­ing punc­tu­a­tion. I can’t recall ever using the caret for any­thing, except draw­ing draw­ing a Christ­mas tree onscreen a num­ber of years back. Is the caret really more impor­tant than the cent symbol?

I dis­cussed this with Biodiesel Ed at the local farm­ers mar­ket. He, of course, blamed it on con­ser­v­a­tive politi­cians. “They’re being wined and dined by the pow­er­ful and clan­des­tine proof­read­ing indus­try.” Ed leaned in close. “Their lob­by­ist has no shame.”

I stepped back and fanned the air. “What’s smell?”

I’m recy­cling my urine into drink­ing water. I’ve almost per­fected the process. Would you like some?”

Declin­ing his offer, I stopped by the State Capi­tol to dis­cuss this with one of my legislators.

Is it true that you’re being bought off by the proof­read­ing indus­try to replace the cent sym­bol on the key­board with the caret?” I asked.

The leg­is­la­tor chuck­led and leaned for­ward on his desk, steepling his fin­gers together, then said, “There’s no such thing as global warming.”

Um, I didn’t ask about global warming.”

He blinked, then smiled. “Repeat after me, there’s no such thing as a global warming.”

I couldn’t decide if he was hid­ing the truth, or try­ing to avoid admit­ting that he didn’t know what a caret is. I thanked him for his time and left.

I nor­mally don’t pay atten­tion to con­spir­acy the­o­ries, espe­cially from peo­ple who recy­cle their own body waste, but I must admit that Biodiesel Ed’s sug­ges­tion is seem­ing less and less far fetched.

Great power comes with the abil­ity to tell peo­ple to insert punc­tu­a­tion any­where proof­read­ers deem to place a caret. The ques­tion is, will they use that power wisely?

Mar 172011
 

When I was a small child, I believed that the entire world was in black & white until the third sea­son of Bewitched.  I based my the­ory on the con­tents of my mother’s dresser drawer.  Inside, she kept a cache of old photographs–her prom, her wed­ding day, baby pic­tures of my older sis­ter and me–and every pic­ture was in black and white.

Since most pic­tures, movies, and syn­di­cated tele­vi­sion shows were in black and white, it seemed log­i­cal (in my mind) that color wasn’t invented until a few years after I was born.  I pin­pointed the exact time of col­oriza­tion to have occurred when ABC renewed Bewitched for a third sea­son, because that’s when the show went from being broad­cast in black and white to color.  I used to worry that all the color might run out, one day, and we’d have to go back to liv­ing in black and white.

The more I watched Bewitched, the more mind began to spec­u­late.  In the sixth sea­son, actor Dick York who played Dar­ren left the series due to a dis­abling back con­di­tion.  He was replaced by actor Dick Sar­gent, who played Dar­ren until the series ended four years later.  I remem­ber being dis­turbed that no one seemed to notice that Dar­ren wasn’t the same per­son, any­more.  As I waited to fall asleep at night, I began to imag­ine that one day I might dis­ap­pear and be replaced by some­one else–and no one notice or care.

Even­tu­ally, my mother straight­ened me out about color.  A few years later, she described some Christ­mas dec­o­ra­tions that my grand­mother used to put up when my mother was a child.  Her words star­tled me.  I asked her how she knew the dec­o­ra­tions were a color.  My mother gave me a quizzi­cal look, then said, “Because I could see the color.”  She inquired fur­ther about my ques­tion; I sup­pose she was curi­ous.  How­ever, at that moment, I real­ized how stu­pid my Bewitched con­spir­acy the­ory had been and changed the sub­ject.  It’s odd how even as chil­dren, we sense when we’ve done some­thing unusual that attracts the wrong kind of attention.

What odd the­o­ries did you have as a child?

Mar 102011
 

Mormon Missionaires with White Dress Shirts & Bicycles Until recently, I mis­tak­enly believed that the pur­pose of Mor­mon mis­sion­ar­ies was to con­vert oth­ers to the beliefs of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but in fact their plan for world dom­i­na­tion has very lit­tle to do with pros­e­ly­ti­za­tion.

I recently met a man at a cof­fee shop who goes by the name of Prophet Jim.  For the price of a bot­tle of Mad Dog (which he swore he wouldn’t buy, it was sim­ply to pay the fees at the shel­ter and gas money and hot dog, if he hap­pened to be lucky enough to pass a QT).  “You see, the LSD Church is actu­ally run by Hokipoki, Inc.,” Prophet Jim said, pro­ject­ing a healthy amount of spit­tle in my gen­eral direc­tion.  “It’s a sin­is­ter com­pany that has made mil­lions man­u­fac­tur­ing two items:  white dress shirts and bicycles.”

Prophet Jim picked a few lice from his beard and nib­bled on them before he began again.  The CEO of the com­pany is Madame Bueno Kitty, a for­mer trained assas­sin who sports an eye patch and an alu­minum leg/flask that she keeps filled with a com­bi­na­tion of saki & Red Bull.”  Jim made a point of shiv­er­ing, then peek­ing up at me to see if I was shiv­er­ing, too.  I was not, but intrigued by his story.

Madame Bueno Kitty encour­ages young Mor­mon men to set out on the best future two years of their lives to con­vert more people–especially men–to Mor­monism, so she can sell more white dress shirts and bicy­cles.” Jim glanced over his shoul­der and leaned for­ward.  “You see, she has this thing for IBM repair­men, and she gives every new mis­sion­ary a pocket pro­tec­tor when she sends them off.”

Eww,” I said.

You’re absolutely right; she is a female sheep.”

Um, that’s not what I meant–”

If you go on YouTube, search for Hoki Poki Japan­ese com­mer­cials, and you’ll see what a dia­bol­i­cal genius she is.”

Mind con­trol?” I asked.

No! She hired the Osmonds for a suc­cess­ful ad cam­paign in Japan. Why didn’t I think of show­ing Donny giv­ing Marie a pump up a hill in San Fran­cisco on his Hoki Poki bicy­cle.  Genius!”

Do you mean like how the French think Jerry Lewis is a com­edy genius?”

Prophet Jim grabbed me by the col­lar of my shirt and brought my face close to his.  “This ain’t no laugh­ing mat­ter, son!  Madame Bueno Kitty is now sell­ing beef­cake cal­en­dars of Mor­mon boys cavort­ing around in their Tem­ple gar­ments, doing laun­dry, exer­cis­ing, study­ing their scrip­ture, and call­ing their mamas on Mother’s Day.”

So, she’s sex­u­al­iz­ing these young men and fetishiz­ing their undergarments …”

Well, yeah, but there ain’t noth­ing wrong with that.”  Jim fin­ished off my scone, which I didn’t really need, any­way.  “She’s going to make a but­t­load of money sell­ing those funny draw­ers, too.”

That’s an out­rage!” I shouted, as I slammed my fist on the table.

Well, I’d love to do some­thing about it, but the liquor store is about to close, and I … um … wanna go get a sand­wich there.”

The liquor store serves sandwiches?”

Yeah, but only to home­less people.”

Oh.”

If your not busy tomor­row, come back and I’ll tell you how Madame Bueno Kitty plans to put those kind Tibetan monks that man­u­fac­ture these sporty hemp G-strings out of business.”

Hemp G-strings?” I asked.

Yeah, I’m wear­ing a pair now.”  He cupped his mouth and whis­pered, “They really let the boys breath, if you know what I mean.”

I nod­ded.  “Yes, I see …”  How­ever,  I had no idea what he was talk­ing about.  Still, I know where I’ll be tomorrow.