COPACETIC CITY

Top ten reasons David Letterman should apologize to Governor Palin and Willow

2009-06-13T09:44:00.000-07:00

　
10. He's jealous because Arod didn't knock him up.
9. He confused being a jerk with being a clown.
8. Alzheimer's made him say it.
7. To keep from losing his fan.
6. Set an example for his great-grandson-I mean son.
5. He's giving gap-toothed, misogynistic pedophiles a bad name.
4. He's scaring little girls.
3. Was smoked up on crack when he said it.
2. He stole the joke from his brother, Satan.
1. It's the right thing to do.

FIFTEEN MINUTES OF SHAME

2009-02-03T04:52:00.000-08:00

Adny Worhol's quarter hour term has finally ticked off. Time was, everyone had their fifteen minutes of fun in The Sun. We now face stranger days. The media is scouring the planet, looking for people to shame.

Michael Phelps swam his way to fame. But no one is safe from the media mobsters, and now Phelps has to swim through the sharks.

A woman in southern California gave birth to eight children. She already had six. The media blitz has left Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears valiantly looking for the paparazzi. The t.v. talking heads
are outraged. How dare a woman have so many children? How will she care for them? She'll have to go on welfare!!! When news broke that mom might make $2,000,000 doing an interview with Oprah, the same talking heads condemned her for birthing for profit. God forbid she makes money from an interview so she can care for her children. I guess she should let the government feed them.

How to keep a poker face

2009-02-02T10:36:00.000-08:00

The eyes may be the windows to the soul, but at the poker table, the eyes are the windows to the hole. Hole cards, that is, and if you want a shot at the pot, you need to pull the blinds....Click title to read the rest

BEYOND THE GRAVE

2009-01-18T17:45:00.000-08:00

My Grandmother and I had a pact, an unwavering commitment to slip through the veil separating the dead from the undead, to reconnect with a cold reminder, some subtle touch to tell the other of our presence. Whoever passed first would contact the other. We rarely spoke of it, such are the conventions of the southern soul, but I would occasionally catch a glint of remembrance in her rheumy eyes, a promise to be kept, a gift in the making.....

If you wish to read more, click title.

A NEW KIND OF HERO

2007-09-08T14:59:00.000-07:00

The jerk who stole the bike belonging to a missing coed said he took it because he needed parts for his own bike. And if someone leaves a bike sitting unattended, it's takers keepers. He did acknowledge the bike was chained up, but shrugged that off. Oh well, his bad.

And his lawyer claims he's a hero for notifying the police. HERO!!!!!

MY RESIGNATION

2007-09-02T07:23:00.000-07:00

After much deliberation, I have decided to tender my resignation. Effective immediately, I no longer wish to be a member of the human race. The reasons for withdrawing membership should be obvious to most, however I will list a few considerations for clarity's sake.

Common Sense died and no one went to her funeral.

As proof I offer the following tidbits.

1. The government is considering issuing a FAT tax. At the same time, several states are banning TAG in school. God forbid the little tikes should run off a few pounds.

2. Looking for a needle in a haystack? Well, you better not limit your search for long, thin, sharp, metallic items with a point at one end and a hole at the other. Folks might think you are profiling.

The Haves and The Have-You-Lost-Your-Minds?

3. Money and fame is the name of the game. And if you don't believe me just ask Pete Rose, Jose Canseco, O.J. Simpson, Kobe Bryant, Robert Blake, Barry Bonds, Michael Vick, Nicole Richie, Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Mel Gibson.

Everybody's Talking And No One Is Saying Anything.

4. If I have to listen to one more loudmouth yacking in her cellphone, I'm going to lose it: I don't want to know about her colonoscopy. I could care less about his promotion. If you want to talk on the phone get out of the movie theater. Pull off the road. Get out of line. Step outside the waiting room. And for the love of God, take that silly looking headset of your noggin before I send you back to the proctologist.

CIGARS, HOT COFFEE, AND IDIOT SAVANTS

2007-07-21T20:09:00.000-07:00

I was looking forward to the truck-load sale held at Prater's antique store. I'd missed the last three. My back was aligned like an contortionist's colon, but I managed to crawl out of bed and pulled into the parking lot as the first box of goodies was unloaded. Two regulars; a sawed-off, cigar chomping ex-marine with a crew cut, and a steely-eyed, tall drink of water with a bouffant hairdo, charged the box. They collided in a cloud of java spray and swirled smoke.
"Bitch!" The battle cry took wing above the heads of thirty early morning pickers. Some stopped to stare at the blistered arm aiming the cigar. Others continued to claw through the treasure laden box.
"Bastard!" The lady with the do fanned smoke from her face.
"You spilled coffee on me on purpose."
"I hope you get lung cancer!"
More boxes were unloaded. Folks scrambled for position. A teeny-bopper in a halter top pulled a sixties peasant dress from a banana box. Her squeals were drowned out by the Drill Instructor.
"Drop and give me fifty!"
"Fifty?"
The marine fought his way out of the flashback. He was alone.
I left him there, in a sea of civilians, armed with a single red-tipped cigarillo.

MY MOM’S A YANKEE

2007-07-12T22:05:00.000-07:00

The guy would not shut up. He was standing in the kitchenware isle of our local thrift store, in a sleepy southern town nestled on the banks of the White Oak River on the coastal plain of the Tar Heel state. Three little kids were leafing through Dr. Seuss books. Frail, gray-haired grandmas dug through used linens. A young college girl picked up a T-fal skillet.

The man was railing against the South. He was a Yankee, A New Yorker by birth and a jerk by nature. In a loud, boisterous voice the condescending carperbagger did an impression of a southerner.

“There’s a Opossum in the gum tree, maw. Get me a gun and I’ll shoot’ um fer supper”. To a passerby he yelled, “Every hick down here has a truck bed full of empty beer cans, a shotgun, a fishing pole, and a welfare check in his hip pocket. Lazy motherf&#@ers. No wonder you lost the war!”

A mother collected her kids and left. The fine southern grandmas worked their walkers toward the front door. Most of the customers ignored him. Just another displaced Yankee with an attitude. We see it all the time.

Now, don’t get me wrong. My maw’s a Yankee. She spent the first 25 years of her life in the Bronx. Half my aunts and cousins are from up north. Most of them live here now, and some of them had a hard time adjusting to the culture shock.

When I told my Uncle Pete (an octogenarian Italian who moved here thirty years ago from the Bronx) about the guy in the thrift, he laughed and said, “Them damn Yankees are ruining the South.”

Maw said the same thing.

MY CAT SMACKED UP ON KITTY CRACK

2007-07-09T05:48:00.000-07:00

Spaz likes to stand on her head after huffing catnip.

THE BIRDS, THE BEES, AND ME

2007-07-08T11:34:00.000-07:00

My garden consists of two tomato plants, two Thai dragon peppers, two Habanera peppers, a Jalapeño, a Cilantro, and one sweet Basil plant.

I planted them in gallon buckets with rich, dark earth and I give them a shot of Miracle Grow every other week. The plants are doing nicely, thank you. Lush foliage. Sturdy stems. Plenty of blossoms on the tomatoes and peppers.

Problem is, I have little fruit for my labor. The bees are on Holiday, and despite the time I’ve put in, my table is suffering from lack of pollination. So is my sex life, but that is another story for another time.

Today I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands, so to speak. I bought some Q-tips, a pint of Canadian Mist, and a couple copies of The American Gardener. I’m going to pollinate the plants myself, with the swabs.

And you know what they say. “A rose’s a@# through a whiskey glass…”

If that doesn’t work, the magazines should put me in the mood.

DEATH OF AN IMAGINARY FRIEND

2007-06-26T21:50:00.000-07:00

When my nephew Joel was six, his best friend was Al Kopotus. I assumed the boy was Greek. Turns out, he was from the Land of Nod. Al was Joel's imaginary friend.

One Sunday, as my sister sat with the sleepy congregation, Joel suddenly rose from the pew and asked the preacher if he would pray for his friend. Al, Joel told the solemn worshipers, had fallen from a Ferris wheel at the State Fair, and had died.
The congregation shed a collective tear as the preacher led his flock in prayer.

Mortified, my sister bowed her head.

Joel found closure.

BIG BROTHER, OR BIG MOMMA?

2007-06-23T21:16:00.000-07:00

When Spike told me that New York City was thinking about paying kids to show up for class, I thought he’d finally lost his mind. And when Spike told me that the Big Apple was going to reward poor folks for not getting fired, I packed Spike’s suitcase drove him to the farm.

Come to find out, he was right.

Students could receive as much as $500.00 per year if they do well on tests, and should they graduate, they will get $400.00 along with a diploma. Students who get a library card will receive $50.00

Poor people can make an extra $150.00 for keeping a full time job, and $200.00 for going to the dentist.

When I was a kid, back when parents raised their children and not the Government, we had incentive programs. If you received poor grades you were given an increase in study time. If you didn’t graduate, you were given a low paying job. If you filled out a library card, you were given a book.

Grown-ups had incentives too. If they were fired they got bills they could not pay, and if they didn’t get regular dental checkups, they got cavities.

Way I figure it; Spike can have this new world. I’m packing my suitcase and heading for the farm.

SOMEONE DONE STOLE A LAKE

2007-06-23T11:53:00.000-07:00

People will steal anything nowadays. When I was growing up you could leave your house and car unlocked. We didn't even have to chain our bikes to a rack.

BASEBALL SIGNS

2007-06-18T20:30:00.000-07:00

My eight year old nephew Joel is a second baseman. He wants to pitch.
Yesterday his dad taught him the basics: how to hold the ball for different pitches, how to keep an eye on the runner, and the different signs the catcher flashes when calling pitch selection.
After a couple hours, Joel was flashed a series of signs and told to name each one. Dad held his hand down and showed the forefinger.
"Fast ball!"
Two fingers were flashed.
"Curve ball!"
Dad was pleased. He then pointed his middle finger down, the sign for a brush back to move the batter off the plate.
Joel shook his head.
"What's the sign, son?"
"I don't know."
"We went over it. Now think. What's the sign?"
Joel shrugged his shoulders and stammered, "F#@k you?"

I think Joel's staying at second.

THE FAMILY

2007-06-13T22:34:00.000-07:00

I got new neighbors. An entire family moved in last week; a rough and tumble, tight knit crew from the looks of it, and just in time to dispel the rumor that the neighborhood is going to the dogs.

They got strange names, these new folk. Tony the tiger. Willie the whiskers. Tabby two toes. The calico kid.

Word is they are hustling kitty crack. I didn’t believe it until I found several catnip plants growing among the tomato’s in their backyard. That, coupled with the late night stereophonic screams emanating from the Hydrangea bushes confirms my suspicions.

Susie Miller, the precocious, pubescent daughter of Marge and Andy Miller, is missing her hamster, Fred. I fear Fred is sleeping with the fishes. I do not doubt these new neighbors of mine are whacking rodents. It’s what they do.

FLIGHT OF THE CONCHORDS

2007-06-12T22:40:00.000-07:00

I CAN’T AFFORD NOT TO GO TO JAIL

2007-06-12T10:17:00.000-07:00

I read that it cost taxpayers $1,000 a day to keep Paris Hilton in prison. But what amazes me is that taxpayers pay $100.00 a day to care for ordinary inmates.

I figure my expenses come to $25.00 a day, and that includes what I spend on Spaz. I don’t live high on the hog, but there is ham in my frig and I have cable, and I’m on the internet. I stay warm in the winter and cool in the summer. I also spend $3.00 a day on gas, an expense I’m sure the inmate need not incur.

So, what the hell does an inmate need? A cell. Three meals a day. Toiletries. I mean, how much can an orange jumpsuit cost?

PHOTOGRAPHY IS FOR THE BIRDS

2007-06-11T10:34:00.000-07:00

I could smack Alfred Hitchcock for empowering feathered missiles. Last week I was almost gobbled by a turkey and I took a direct hit from a Mockingbird. I’m use to being mocked, but by a bird?

I was sitting on the couch watching the Paris Hilton show when I noticed a flock of turkeys in the back yard. I grabbed my camera and snuck around the side of the house. Seven hens, a couple of gobblers, and a whole passel of pouts’ were feeding on grasshoppers. I snapped a shot just as they spotted me. The turkeys scattered as I advanced the film.
Thirty minutes later, a hen and a jake cautiously made their way back into the yard. The hen spotted me and began to putt. The jake turned to flee. Hoping to ease his fear, I gobbled. Now, either I’m a champion turkey caller, or that jake was as dumb as a conch. He ruffled himself up and gobbled back before charging me. I’m not afraid of a bird but I suddenly remembered I’d left a pot of pasta simmering on the stove, so I went back in the house. Nothing worse than overcooked spaghetti.

A couple of days later I found a mockingbird’s nest tucked in a privet shrub. In order to get a good shot, I stood on a cinderblock, held back some branches with one hand, and snapped a picture. One of the fledglings gapped its beak thinking momma was going to feed her. But momma was busy. Just as I snapped the picture she dive-bombed my head, knocking me off the cinderblock. She circled to make another pass. I would have stood my ground, after all, a mockingbird is much smaller than a turkey, but I could hear the phone ringing so I ran inside. Turned out to be a telemarketer soliciting donations to the Wild Bird Fund.

WHEN CRIME PAYS

2007-06-07T19:01:00.000-07:00

This morning I called the County prison and asked if they were overcrowded. The nice woman on the other line asked if I was with the press. I told her no, that I was just a concerned citizen. She hesitated at first, but then told me they were running at 85% capacity. I thanked her and hung up.

Damn.

I brushed my teeth and ran a comb through what’s left of my hair. I was going to shave, but I didn’t feel like looking at my mug in the mirror, so I doused it with cold water and left it at that. Blood-shot eyes, errant ear and nose hairs, and creased, leathery flesh are best looked at later in the day.

I checked my emails, but it was just another redneck vacation. Nothing but spam and phishing. I googled myself. No surprises there either. I was a ghost thumbing a ride on the information highway. Nothing solid. No bios. No links. No info.

I logged onto my bank account. If I can put together another ten bucks I can cover bank fees for the month.

No money.

No looks.

No celebrity.

I decided to call off the heist. Crime doesn’t pay for guys like me.

2007-06-05T22:20:00.001-07:00

PARIS: FROM THE HILTON TO THE BIG HOUSE

2007-06-05T22:09:00.000-07:00

Half the world believes Paris Hilton should be in prison. The other half is blonde. And despite the petitions, and calls for California Governor Schwarzenegger to intercede, Paris is now behind bars. For the next three weeks, news coverage of the war in Iraq, the up-coming presidential race, and global warming will take a back seat to the Hilton hellion. Tomorrows news reports will likely contain the following:

Last night, Paris Hilton accidentally walked through her cell bars while sleepwalking. She was captured a short time later when a guard overheard her say, “solitary confinement is hot.”

Nicole Richie, long time gal-pal, sent Paris a chocolate cake. A file was inside the cake. Hilton did her nails.

Paris announces release of her new perfume, “Felony”.

When told she would get “three hots and a cot“, Paris requested Leonardo DiCaprio, Nick Lachey, and Brad Pitt.

O.J. Simpson must be laughing his ass off.

SPIKE AND I CRUSH CANS

2007-06-02T21:23:00.000-07:00

I had a couple bags of aluminum cans sitting on the porch, and since there wasn’t anything worth watching on the telly, Spike and I decided to crush ’um and cash in. We set a cinder block on the tailgate and smacked the cans with a brickbat. Not bad work if you can get it, but it’s hard on a man’s back.

I crushed the Sundrop cans and Spike took care of the Busch.

Sweet, syrupy soda squirted me every time I smacked a can and I guess the Magnolia tree couldn’t compete, because after half a bag the YellowJackets started buzzing around me and Spike. I grew up in the country amongst snakes, spiders, bees, and all sorts of varmints, so a Yeller Jacket ain’t nothing but a thing. But Spike got right nervous and started wind milling his arms. That just stirred up the wasps, and they called in reinforcements. I got stung on the hand and Spike smacked it with the brick. Not the best way to kill a wasp, and I couldn’t tell where the YellowJackets blood left off and my began, but the numbness did kill the sting.
Spike got stung on the ass a couple of times, seeing as how that’s the part of his self he showed the wasps, but I gotta give the boy credit; for a brain tumor, he sure can run.

I mixed us up a poultice of wet tobacco and we managed to draw most of the stingers out. We sold the cans for ten bucks, bought another six pack of Busch, and had enough left over to buy Spike a can of Raid.

SPAZ CRUSH

2007-05-30T17:25:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty sure Spaz has a crush on me. All week she has been sleeping with my shirts, holding my hand, and making goo-goo eyes at me.

ME AND SPAZ KILL A BUG

2007-05-28T08:38:00.000-07:00

My cat Spaz is one smart cookie.
Last night she called me into the laundry area. She started crying, and I was worried she got tied up in something, like the curtains again.
So I checked on her. She was standing on the washing machine, crying, looking up at the ceiling. She was after a lightning bug. When she saw me, she started hunching up the way she does when she wants to jump up on my shoulders. I turned my back and she got on. Perched on my shoulder, she reached up and swatted at the bug. It crawled across the wall. We followed. Spaz urged me forward, biting my earlobe whenever the bug looked like it might get away. We spent fifteen minutes crashing that bug through the house. Spaz finally nailed it, but not before she shredded my shoulders with her claws.

Next time, I'm wearing a shirt.

TIPTOE THROUGH THE TOMATO'S

2007-05-28T07:55:00.000-07:00

I got a late start on my garden this year. I say garden, but in fact it's just a few potted vegetables. So far, I have two tomato plants and two habanero peppers. I'm going to add some jalapenos and herbs.

Spike decided he wanted to try his hand at gardening this year. Spike doesn't have a green thumb. In fact, he doesn't have thumbs. Spike is my brain tumor.

The first thing Spike planted was a light bulb. I was surprised to see what sprouted.

He also grew this. I'm afraid to ask him how he did it.