When Your Heart Is Broken - Butt Your Nose Isn't - A smut filled "Work in Progress," penned by Jonathan Livingston Pigeon-Poo, "Doctored" while in the Penn!


Category:  Op/Ed

By:  eat-the-press-do-not-read-it  •  4 months ago  •  88 comments

When Your Heart Is Broken - Butt Your Nose Isn't - A smut filled "Work in Progress," penned by Jonathan Livingston Pigeon-Poo, "Doctored" while in the Penn!
I quote from my old friend, Steve Banion, the former advisor to "Dirty Diaper Donnie", said before being carted off to Jail, "You can fool a Fool many times, if it is a Trump Worshiping MAGA full of Shit"! oukl


The content of this blistering, poorly written (and I mean, "POORLY," with a capital Pee, because Trump likes it that way) rebuke of Right-Wing, Maga "Swingers," may seem to some unfair, one-sided and salacious, because it is!

Write that down in your "Book of Wis-dumb"! It may come in handy at the trial, either yours, or mine. Butt, never Trump's.  

My dearly beloved, Godless News-Talkers-Fiends , too, lazy to get a damn job, because you be playing that DEVIL's game, Corn-Hole, 24/7/365 hours. When you should be out looking for a job that don't exist.

Listen up, "Whining, Blue-Eyed, Left Leaning Liberals, you all need to be "Ed-U-Med-Kated" by me , if I am ever to get filthy rich off your labors.

Friends & Fellow Commies, as many of you know, I am now, and have always been a non-resisted, Trump Univer sity certified sucker.

You see, in me youth, when I was young and dumb and chewing gum, I stole my mother's and father's LIFE SAVING, gave it all to Don Trump, Jr., in a plaster bag, that was required. At that time, Don Jr. served as treasurer/money changer at T-Rump University.

I should have known what was going to happen, because above the large door, there was engraved in blood the Fake University's crest which read, purloined from those "Greatest Cons of All Times", The Barnum & Baily  Entremetiers (who never got busted, or even charged with a crime, although historians and ripped-off people clamored vociferously that
"B & B" were criminals, debunkers, and twisted sisters that this nation had ever seen, since Aran Burr).

There were clues, all missed. Informative words, carved in large block letters, by a left-hand, handicap Rihas monkey (in all caps), the following immortal, immoral words that ring true to this day: 


Don, Jr. (before he got hooked on drugs and hooked up with that Fox TV Slut) was, at the time, the Bursar in charge of registration and CASH ONLY PAYMENTS!

All the sucker/students were required to pay in advance, in cash, or have their teeth shove so far down their throat that they had to talk out of their engorged ARSE!

The FBI, CIA, even J. Edgar Hoover was too busy chasing down Hunter Bien's LAPTOP to even consider this Con as a crime, because, by then, Donald J. Trump (aka, "Dirty Diaper Donnie" was projected to run as president in 2016, according to that infamous Russian Seer, Nostril Dumb-Bottom, who rarely gets anything right.

And, well, you know the rest of the story.

-----------------------------When Nature Calls-Answer! --------------------------

My fellow misguided Demon-crates, write this down and put it in a "safe place, like a book.

You, your grimy, unbathed, unshaven Mass of Asses, Confederate Flag Waving, drunk armed militia compatriots, siblings, and contested parents will NEVER crack open a book, unless it is made of "crack"!

Now, Ladies of the Oak Creek Moment, take your bras off and rite this down, cause your men can't write:

"We, the Saviors of 'Murika, Must Never Forget What Was Said Here," in case Trump's lawyers (Ku-Klux & Klan) show up at your trailer with a sworn affvi-david-its made out to: 

"Whining Sissies, Tight-Arse s Re-Pukes, with Sticks of Explosives Shoved Up Your Patooties", to hide their urine weapons, while tramping through the "Sacred Hall of Congress," piddling on everything in sight, and, of course, Horse, purloining everything their stubby, dirty, tiny hand can grab, even, if necessary, each other's balls.

This is the "Proud Balls" salute of Unity, or something else.

Now, Fellow 'Muri-Klans, "That's what Real Macho, 'MuriKlans do, you -ho, Brokeback Mountain, Fake Fisher Men!

Ye, see, Limited MAGA Patri-Idiots, the Demon-crats, in Congress, and "Sleepy-Eye Joe" are gonna take your guns, outlaw Open Carry Laws in every state, including Canada, leaving no one in "MureeKa" gun less.

Then, too, there are Trumpers, still licking their lips, as they are excitedly returning from another, Trump Rally in the Alley, held in an "all-White-Uptight, Shit-Hole burro, somewhere in the South, or Southwest, where folks still eat raw, red meat with their hands, and suck down Moonshine until the break of day, because they are "real men", and the women are, too.

In the Northeast, Chicago, New Jersey, New York, in Mafia controlled territories, these slime buckets are known as soon to be forgotten " Fugazzi's"!  (Thats Mafia for, you know, don't make me say it.  It enrages former school-hall monitors)

Don't make me say it, or thenewstalker.com's MONITORS, will be on me, like flies on shit!

(Note, those are not cuss words. They are now, and were then, when, I was in the "up-tight, all-right, kill 'em on-sight" military service, and "Bone Spur," was not!)

By far, according to my research team, attached to (or, chained to) that less than prestigious, "Bird Droppings Institute - a Think Tank for Morons, No Idiots, or Didoes, Please, Pretty Please," acknowledged by the "Less Than Stellar Scholars" as the most popular, impactful phrase in the Military's Lexicon, when I served grudgingly in the United States Armed Forces, and Trump did not.

This "Nationally Maligned Epistle" is dedicated, hereby, dedicated to Right-Wing Gun Slingers, Communists Singers (kicked off the "VOICE", because, well they are Communists and Blake Shelton is, also, according to our frequently, "chained to their iron post bed" (for their own protection) wanted former scholars!

And, of course, Horse, I would be remised, and red faced, if I did not acknowledge, the MAGA inspired, violent-prone, angry, Trump Surrogates who suck ferociously on T-Rump's coat tails. (It's not sexual, in case you were wondering. It's more Jim Jonesy)

And, finally, normal, upright, uptight, bi-pedals, too stupid to realize that "Dirty Diaper Donnie" i s full of crap, I welcome you with open arms, and salute your ability to "Tear Shit Up!"

My, God! What do these peoples have? Shit for brains ?

Well, my indulgent, left-lending, Socialist-Commies-New-Stalkers' Fiends, I must confess, like my Hemorrhoid Hero, Donnie Trump, I hurriedly scribbled these incomprehensible rants on a roll of slightly "used", toilet paper, because I am a big proponent of recycling everything, even other people's assets, which is really easy if you know how to do it.

The things I learned at Trump University always, always comes in handy, especially, in the darkest days, when the Fed are closing in on you. I pull out my $19.99 pamphlet, "How to Dodge Indictments," when on the run. And, walleye, I am out of another scrape with the law.  That is one of my favorite games since Military School.

Fer instant, fellow Flat Earthers & Flat Liners, if some sets down there, coat, walnut, or illegal drugs to go, let's say, to the restroom, I recycle them!

Excuse me for my indulgence.

Butts, I write my Epistles setting on my own, "Gold Star" plated throne, gifted to me, by the "King Pen", himself, "The One & Ornery, Always Horny, Adderall Addicted, Twisted POS, Donald J. Trump, aka, ' Dirty Diaper Donnie' "

It is signed by DJT! On sale at all "Hobby Lobbies" stores in 'Muricaland , and not, in our Fatherland, Putin's Putrid Russia. 

Can I get a Hail Yes, Mary ?

(That is my Drag Queen Show name, so don't shoot me. I am packin' and wearing a bullet-proof, body armor suit from Macy's, sold only at Wal-Mart stores on Religious Holidays.

Now, you all, I know that my now you are banging your head against a wall, screaming, "Make this SOB Shut Up, GOD. I can't take it one more freaking-fracking second."

(Short Panic Break Maybe Required, Now)

I trust you all are smart enough to know that Mary Trump is "the Patron Saint" fer Dirty Diaper Donnie's" Mafia-Styled, Family of Grifters. 

Buttheads, did you know that she
technically, she is his niece. (The only one in his extended family that he didn't Ka noodle.)**************************
Friends, Fellow Fiends, I know that discovering the "Tooth" can hurt as much as, paying a drunken, Trump University dentist, to pull it.

Therefore, I offer, yo'all, an "off-off ramp" if you want to use it.  As I so often want to do, but can't, because I am one sick, scatological, addicted Freak'n-Frack democrat limited to understand that it is the Republican Party where fortunes can be made, not in democrat party of "do good-ers".

So, my rarely seen, Brothers & Sistas of the Corn Hole De Generation, I say to you, in all honesty, that this is as good of time, as any, to "Burn Your Republican Party Membership," and set yourself free! Free from MAGA CRAP! It is worse than the clap!

Ok, Fellow News Stalkers.Commies, the truth is I gained access to "The Donald's" messy abode easily, because I disguised myself as an " Emergency-Shit- Plumber," (like Steve Bannon) and entered the palatial, rarely cleaned, "Marge's Large Hole" , through the back door, unnoticed by the hordes of the "Unpaid Trump Wipers," racing though and foe, up and down the damned, dirty corridors, faster than the frenzied rats scurrying all over, the place looking for stolen, "TOP SECRET DOCUMENTS".

Thanks, to the "White, Blue-Eyed Jesuses," painted on those cheap, black velvet canvasses, smartly hung on every wall, to cover up the numerous holes in the walls, celling, even the stairs. 

and stole it from His Filthiness's Trump Tower, while "the Donald" was "poking someone knew every hour, all day and night on Saints Day!

So, friends, if you are offended by words, but not deeds, you might want to wander over of the many, Right-Wing, Smelly, Stinking POS sites dedicated to Hunter Biden's "Egregious Crimes" and lick their pages, not mine. Mine are "shitty"!

Hurry before the entire Republican world collapses, the globe, as we know it, turns to Red SHAT!

Do Not FORGET, my Fellow, Fallen, Ex-Newsvine Refuges:

"VOTE December 6th, 2022! For Herschel Walker fer Sin-a-tor!
Or I will send Herschel to your house to kick the SHAT out of your entire worthless family and steal your favorite pen.
(This Ad was paid fer by "Shit for Brains", a group of excessively, insidiously rich Republican   Bastardo's )

Don't scold me, Red Necks, with Red Faces, from Red State, "It's in the Bible, somewhere!" - Doctored Pigeon Poo

It is time for another, "Broke Back Mountain" break. I know some of my Twisted Sisters are
exhausted with this tirade.  I know I am. so you must be, also. Remember, fellow Facebook Fiends we must conserve our energy to CRUSH them at the poll in 2022, or, sooner with poles! 
 I know that this is somewhat of a 
Tear Jerk.

Tissues are available for $2.00 per packet.


This is the only know, photo of "Doctored" & Mrs. Jonathan Livingston Pigeon-Poo, Flounders of the Infamous, Less-Than Prestigious, BIRD DROPPINGS INSTITUTE, a Think (Stink) Tank for Morons, No Idiots, please!

We be located, er, locked up, for our own safety, in Mildew, Oh-High-As-AKite-Oh-Ho-Ho, where there are no jobs, not even BLOW JOBS, thanks to a swarmed of Stink Bugs, carrying Re-Puritans who uninvitedly, migrated from their flooded Red States to our community, prior to the Mid-Term Erection...er...Election, coming on everyone, everything, every ballot to such a degree, NO ONE WOULD COUNT THOSE BALLOTS for any amount of money. That is how democrats lost the House.

And now, by beloved News Talkers, the must awaited literacy tome BANNED in every RED STATE in 'Merica, sold only at HUSTLER ADULT MAGAZINE STORES in Red States mostly. 

When Your Heart is Broken & Your Teeth Aren't!

Have you ever blinked wet dry tears while wetting your pants without blinking, just fer fun? Well, you are about too.

Or, howled like a werewolf, per Herschel's suggestion that the ONLY way to defeat Senator Warnock (e.g., "the Black Dracula," who is mercilessly sucking the souls out of White Folks, over 18, eligible to vote, multiple times, at the upcoming Ga. run-off election, scheduled for December 6th, 2022) is by VOTING for the former Val-i-Dick-Tor-ian , Herschel Walker (If I knocked you up, Sister...I pay for abortions!)

Like Trump, McConnell and Miss Lindsey, I "Walk on the Wildside", too. When my mommy gives me, a note saying I am allowed, which it isn't often with me, but it is all the time with DJT and Re-Pugnant recently released from JAIL.

I did, however, one "Walked & Chew Gum" at the same time. It was excruciating until I fell into an open manhole. That cured me and broke " me" teeth.

Fortunately, most of the time, in my small, mediocre life, I remain silent, lost in a slowly retreating, every evaporating mind, as the woodworms from the "on-set of Alzheimer," creeps quietly, slowly toward total senility.

Whenever, I brush my remaining, "Two Front Teeth", I am impelled to sing that Christmas Opus, "All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth."

"Two Front Teeth! Two Front Tooths!"

Even my prescriptions bottles compete for my attention, screaming, "take me first, Ass Wipe, or I flush down from your make shit toilet crown.

The truth is fellow newstalker.com fiends , I will now only be referred to as "DOCTORED" Jonathan Livingston Pigeon-Poo. If I am not "doctored," who the HELL is.

Here, at the Dick Cheney's "Nursing Home for Wayward Republicans" , where "Waterboarding is a Therapy, not a Torture," it is mandatory that respect of one's ranks, and stay in your room all g-d day.

The mission of this Institution's "inspiring words" is stitched on every employee's forehead, as a gentle reminder of its purpose, cruelty and the joy of infecting vengeance by its onerous owner, Dick "The Prick" Cheney!

All Hail Satan's Right Hand Maniacal Beast!

However, it is NOT all "doom & gloom", on occasions, particularly, holidays when the heirs of the superrich Vulture Capitalists show up (drunk & disorderly) to make fun of and laugh uproariously, at the semi-nude, starving "Lost Souls" and now paupers, the TV are left on, locked on Fox TV Network FAUX NEWS all day, all night until the guests flee, as the
sacred, "Bajuses" follows them to their chauffeured driven Limos, by big Bust Bimbos!

And that is only half of the stale tale told by an Idiot!

TUNE IN TOMORROW , when Walter Concrete brings you "The Rest of the Story, Muther-Foo-kars!"

If you have already taken your "Morning Trump Dump," remember to flush 17 times, prior to leaving your bathrooms. Those fumes are toxic!


Author's Note from "Inside Uranus".)

You know that itchy, scratch sensation you get, when relaxing on the commode? That ain't hemorrhoids.

It's our "Potty Cast" coming to you from URANUS ...so don't scratch. It interferes with the microphone.

Folks, in all seriousness, I am not certain that a sane person would willingly want to damage their brain, as I have done numerous times for may Scientific research, that (readers) decent, non- Twisted Sister, want to make that kind of sacrifice for Bathroom Humor.

However, if you a masochist, lonely, have not friends and no prospects of ever having any, you may want to proceed to our next chapter.

It is the story of another, little known, sinister, mercurial scheme discovered by my colleague, "Doctored" Lipschitz, a world renown Ventriloquist, who specialized in jamming his hand up a dummy's ass, unbeknown to the audience.

It has been described by similar psychopaths as a sicken, disgusting, fowl "Potty Mouth Thriller," crafted by the Wizard of Oz, aka, Doctor Oz, who is NOT a Wizard of Poli-licking! (Pennsylvania voter can assure you of that).

This episode is a classic, it is a "Tale of Two SHATIES," told by a Moron, that "Signify Nothing"!

Nada, No chips, not even, Nachos Chips, Wood Chips or Bull Chips! One might say it is chip less. 

Come on, folks, you know what I meant to say. But can't, because I worked those schists to death! 

There is no more toilet paper on my roll. Sadly, I am in the middle of it, of a Vesuvian flow of hot gases. 

My therapist, "Shit for Brains," say that my literary work is very "ANAL".  What an asshole! 

And darlings, you, loyal, little toilet mouths, know that dar ain' t no one dat know "nutling" more about arse- mouth than "Dirty Diaper Donnie.

- "Doctored" Jonathan Livingston Pigeon-Poo!

Donnies is the escaped lunatic, who knows where all the bodies are buried at Lago Golf Course, where unfortunately there are no "Porta Johns," bathroom, toilets, commodes, potty boxes, urinals, or pots to piss in. Just cemetery plots to bury one enemy, used occasionally by golfers as the perfect location to do your business. Once filled to the brim, the non-paid Staff-a-Coccio, cover up the "crime scene.

(And you wondered how that Fat Whale Arse get away with all these crimes?) 

Well, "now you know the rest of the story!"  -Walter Concreteever have "Poo Problem", don't call a plumber, call Doctor Poo!

My fellow New Stalkers.Commies/Socialists/Lib-er-tards , and fiends...er...friends, my less than esteem buddy, and wrestling partner, the renown doctors, Dr. Ding-Dong & his Evil Twin, Doctor Ding-A-Ling (Siamese Twits) were cast out of Mar Largo, the Temple of Shat, unceremoniously, by that Ass Wipe, POS Donald J. Trump, and stripped of their credentials as Certified, Licensed WIPERS ending their 45-year employment for "Shit for Breath," the philandering husband of Melanoma, the Russian model, hooker, commie from Slovenia, where the word SHIT means "Brain". So, if someone in Slovenia call your "Shit Head", it's a compliment, not slap down, or, so I am told by my "sauces."

Do you have any idea how difficult of a profession that is to get in?

One has to acquire their own Maks, Rubber Gloves, Rubber Rubbers (one never ever knows when one might get lucky).

and, it goes without saying, a light-colored, yellow Rubber Raincoat, awarded exclusively from the pristine Medical Society of Twisted Urologists.

determine which of patients have fat wallets, diminishing minds susceptible to SCAMS, are easy targets. Those are the ones addicted to "Free SHAT" , for money!

Below is a List of Alex Jones's "free SHAT for Seniors", continuous broadcasting on cable networks for deaf, blind and stupid aging MAGA losers: 

1. Medicare Review at no cost! Just pay more MONEY to a Medicare/Medicaid helpful agent, who will gibber your old folks thorough the payment process, including an "Auto Payment Plan", designed personally for you to eliminate the stress of having money!

2. Then, of course, there is your pressure to buy "Car Shield," a Lock Guard/Safeguard, additional Private Health Insurance Plan from the nice folks that depleted your parents' banks accounts, with the help of Tom Selleck, who is not rich enough.

3. And, of course, every nearly senile Senior Citizens need to have Home Title Protection, Volcano Eruption Protection, Invasion Protections from Space Aliens, Crones Disease, Erection Protection, Triple-Fire Protection (but, not for houses that catch on fire.

( Caution : Nimrods should always read the 6-point FINE PRINT!

4. The FREE SHAT is endless: FREE PHONE, for only $100, plus, "Schukin' & Driv'n fees".

car, computer, tablets, TV's upgrades, etc., or, I will have no teeth in the morning.

Who wants false teeth, when FALSE NEWS is free?

Why pay for "Falsies" when, "Free Silicone Injections" will soon be free, thanks to the generosity of the caring Conservative Tight-Wad, Conservative-Republicans, who, while drunk, face up on a Mar Lago, barroom floor,  had an epiphany when He-She-It realized that the other part of his trio (SHE IT) are on a Stinking, Sinking Shit Hole Ship, piloted by none other than that Crazy Lovable Clown, "Dirty Diaper Donnie," the man who made brown spots in Men's Underdrawers acceptable, sought after APPARELLEL.

My cellphone rings hourly, text messages every freakin' second, FB ads are everywhere, account receives 90 emails per day with lies, bull chips and thing, I do not need, because me freakin', frackin' cell phone will no longer be able to receive calls, post, text, not even "tell me the truth" online, if I don't upgrade immediately.

No on-line service for days, weeks, months, years, decades, and you imagine a world without bullshit? We, you and I, Honey, will be completely isolated from our virtual world, where the majority of us find acceptance, respect, using a fake name, photo, while postings to thousands of people we never met. 

We will be forced back, shoved into "boring...boring" reality, if we don't pay for the upgrades that we all need, right this damn minute...or no soup for you, no teeth in the a.m. 

So, of course, I submitted to the Gods of Instant Communication, who, only HE/SHE, has the power, the clout, the conservative Republican clout to connect strangers to each other, and strange strangers in Outer Space. Who wouldn't want that?

So, I called to get upgraded only to get downgraded by a telemarketer located in China. 

Don't wait, or piddle away your life savings on a foreign agent's promise to send you, a "MONEY BACKED GUARANTEE" of Instant Nirvana, but sent a box of SHAT, instead.

Please, don't be embarrassed, because you are a naive ass wipe. I have been there, done that. I have an entire basement filled from top to bottom with boxes, and boxes of SHAT!  Do you want some? Aged, fermented SHAT cures everything from Nail Fungus, Shingles, Impotency, to your first indictment for Sexual Assault.

Because I love you all (not really) I will send a box of my aged, ferment SHAT that I purchased on-line, like you, Dumb, Hillbilly, Red-Faced, Red-Neck Arses for the low, low, low, very, low-low price of ONLY $60.00 , plus Shafting & Handling Charges of only, $1700.00 via First Class on our co-sponsors "Dirty Diaper Donnie's BETTER RED THAN DEAD" jet airliners, made in Putin's Russia. 

Save yourself the "Pain & Agony" of dealing firsthand with angry, violent-prone MAGA-Gestapos banging on your door. 


T-Rump has ONLY GOT SO MUCH hot SHAT! He is constantly overflowing demand!"

* * * If you must take a piss break, take it here, er, now. I am. * * * 

Friends, Winos and Petty Thieves:

you know that 'the Jesus' want you to do this.

Be the first in your neighborhood to scoop up a cup full of Trump Shat, put in a brown paper cup, and set it on FIRE. Toss leave it on your neighbors' doorstep.  Those Left-Wing, Sissified, East Coast Liberals bolt "outta" neighbors, freeing up the vacant homes and land to construct "the Kyle RiddenHorsesAss Housing Project ," (aka, within, the super-secret, MAGA Republicans "Circle Jerk for Perverts," as the wet dream of wet dream: a GATED COMMUNITY, featuring plenty of gun turrets, miles of barbwire fence (who doesn't love "barbwire" fences) and delicately disguised MINE FIELDS!
Naturally, I sold the house, the car, auctioned off the furniture for pennies on the dollar, emptied out my son, grandchildren, and incoherent relatives account to Save the World from Bernie Sander's Socialism.

"Praise the Lord and Passed the Ammunition."

Friends, and nearly nude. communists, let me ax you, Right-Cheer, Right- Now, on dis God-Damned, Free Platform, known to the world's "Unindicted Co-conspirators as its name implies (if you know FRENCH. The French are into Sex. That not ONLY invented "French Fries", but, more import


Come on, admit it. We all like "Free Shit".

I tell myself, that no one in this, "cheer" Modern-Up-To-Date World of "Rush-Rush-Rush, Run-Run-Run Mother Furkas," would be stupid enough to do otherwise, except "Demon-crates"! Those filthy "Monkey Pox" infected homos. What say, U-Hauls?

Always "Do Right!"

Never Get "Lit at Night!"

You might shat your own pants, fall in a sewer hole, and have sex with a sheep thinking it was a Re-Puritan Hussy!

Even Joel Oil-Sting, draped in his "Holy Roller", $4000 designer suits, gets "free shit!"

You, too, fellow fiends, can get free junk from your "House of Worseness" ...er..."Worship", if'n only, you believes, and make damn sure you send in your tithes. 


HE AIN'T GOT NO MONEY OF HIS OWN! - (Joel OilSteen has it all!)

edAmen, Brother Ben & Sista Arse Kickers, if'n you want urine Arse Kissed, you have to wash it first, in the Holie Waters of Holly Rollers, while talkin-In-Tongue to the White-Blue-Eyed-Blond JESUS,on sale at Reverend Oral Fleeces' Church of the "How Big Is Your Wallet - How Small Is Your Mind!"

It is the Temple, da place where yous should be right now! Damit, and yu ain't, cause the Good/Sometimes Bad, Reverend Fleece, when not in jail, likes to sing his favorite sonnet, "Kiss My Arse-You Rottin' Sons of Bitches. "Cause I'm a gonna beat you in the teeth if you don't send that tithe money, Honey to me, ASAP!" 

Can I get a "Halli-luge"?

Well, then, kiss my Muther Foo-gar's Arse , too.

After all, you U-Haul, isn't that what da Jesus want from us all to do? Get tractor trailers loaded down with "Free Shit" to hoard, show off to friends, and make fun of the poor, who don't have anything, 'cause we stole it all to relieve them of the stress poor folks have? 

Gods want us to damn, well get the things we want, or take them from da poor, 'cause they are poor and ain't gonna notice. Rich people do if you snatch a penny off da floor.

Like a Facebook Moroon , I fall for every promising free scam offer, and can no longer pick up my cellphone because it is load with "free offers," none of which are FREE.

Detection vs Election

Have you ever had the Mid-Term erection blues, er, "election" blues, when you were rewarded fer all your fine work with a mini stroke that ripped at your consciousness until it was shredded, or there is nothing left?

Did you experience:  Silence, no thoughts, Ok eyesight, no hindsight, no brain connection, no comprehension, no fear, nothing. except silence and nothing a toll (those are island somewhere).

Anyway, it happened to me, unexpectedly, about 5 years ago.

My wife, Misses Boomb-Ba Chick-Chick, and I, were watching TV, in our upstairs love nest, with opened window dat we love to scream through to scare are drunken neighbors Hillary and Bill, two horny, uncontrollable wife-swappers. 

You see, me, Ethel and I, are nudist, sun worshippers, and we enjoy the feel of the warm Sun was warm on our backs, and a slight, summer breeze gently caressed are naked arses.

We often smiled at each other, as we read "Melanoma's Autobiography", told by an idiot, full of Botox, and Stuffed with Silicone, sold only by "Maroon Hunter Bilden, exclusively in the former Confederate states, where there are no jobs, not even blow jobs!

(NOTE:  This is a work in progress. If you would like to see the rest of the story, put $50,000 in one-dollar bills, in an unmarked enveloped and send it to "The Bird Drooping Institute - A Think Tank for Maroons, No Idiots, Please, " % of Mildew, Ohio.

I will send it back to you in ten months, ten-folds. You, too, Trump Wits, can be as rich as Joel Olsten, who yesterday blocked be on Facebook, 'cause I wouldn't spend him any more money, Honey. Can you believe "dat" ?

STOP! (Not edited. Revised several times, but it still does not make any sense.)


as we so often do, now, still affection after 48 years, but more subdued. I was sitting on the couch, and no more than 3 feet away to my left, by wife sat, quietly reading a book. She can devour a book in a day, that may take me a year to finish.

I am visual. I like film, TV, videos, artwork, while she loves to read. We are so different, yet the same.  I am effusive, explosive, she like her father, by nature is quiet, graceful, thoughtful before she speaks.

I felt what appeared to me to be a small drop water move ever so delicately within my left ear, as it has done hundreds of times, when from a dip in a pool, I shook my head like a wet horse, leaned my head down in one direction or another, and tapped my head like a Marx Brother Maroon. It usually worked.

Not this time. Instantly, everything changed, perhaps for the remainder of my life.

I could see, but not hear, think, comprehend, or communicate with anyone, not even myself. 

Nothing, no connection with my mind, no thought, blank, no sense of time, panic, pain only blank, blank, blank nothingness.

Less than thirty seconds later, I surmised, the fluid moved again. Instantly, I could hear faintly, see, think, as all my senses returned. A panic fear shot through my mind, body, soul, and every fiber of my body. 

I turned slowly toward my wife to explain what had happened, but the word stubbornly refused to exit.

It was as if the words I wanted were on an elevator, the doors open, I could see them clearly stacked neatly in the back of the elevator on the floor. They just refused to jump off before the door closed. It was a stalemate, the doors remained open. The helpless awkwardness of frozen speech began to thaw slowly and word by word I began to speak haltingly.

My wife looked at me inquisitively, but I was unable to articulate what just happened. 

I leaped up from the couch, ran into the adjacent bedroom, immediately and called me doctor.

In those brief moments, when I was in a vegetable, completely detached, mindless, empty, nothingness state, I now realized that that was worst situation for anyone, anywhere to encounter. Alive, but totally unplugged. 

The corridors of my mind were empty, "no echoes of my mind" played sweet, poignant music, only silence, stillness, no consciousness, no thoughts, no awareness, no comprehension, no sound, no nothing.

Gradually, within the ringing of the phone, I recovered enough to be worried. Very worried, to communicate with the doctor's office what happened and got an appointment immediately.

As a sophomore in college, during my Spring and Summer break I took a job as a psychiatric aide at the NJ State Hospital during my college break. It was 1963, we, as a nation, thought of ourselves, as an Enlighted Mental Health World, but in reality, were not much removed from the purveyors of "Snake Pits," who used shock to jolt the so-called "insane" back into their senses.

Although, at that juncture in psychiatric history, Electric Shock Therapy was the preferred, modern-day therapy staff psychiatrists, aides, nurse assigned to our ward used to subdue a screaming, ranting raving patient who had deceived the health care providers by not swallowing their pills, and within a few days, returning to an all-consuming madness,

He was a kind man but spoke with a broken English/German accent making it difficult to understand. 

Witnessing first-hand the horrific, tortuous contortions caused by this brutal procedure, shivered as I looked upon a comatose, eyes wide-open patient blankly stare.

Where is their mind, I asked myself? It appeared that they, too, were mindless, unable to speak, move, hear, blink...only stare vacuously.

Gradually, they would come to slowly, calmly, and gradually, appear to regain their sense of self.

It was spooky, haunting, and troubling to me that in our so-called enlighten era, we were resorting to this bizarre, beastly apparatus, as a "therapy tool", instead of what it appeared to me to be, a form of "torture."

That vacant stare haunted me for nearly 75 years, until the moment I had that mini-stroke and entered into their world for what may have been seconds, in retrospect, seems like an eternity.

To this day, I take my medications religiously, driven by the fear that it could happen again, but, this time, permanently.

Nothing has ever frightened me, as much as that incident, nearly five years ago, which has had other lingering effects, that make be aware that, perhaps, the end is near.

I often harkened back to my memory of that summer in Morris Plain, New Jersey, when I looked into a patient's eyes and knew that their mind/consciousness was gone.

In that moment, in 1963, staring into the eyes of an attractive, lovely woman, possibly in her young forties, as I held her by her upper arms to prevent her from falling, I witness a fate worse than death. 

It was at that instant; I knew that I had Psychology was not a course of study any longer for me. That Fall, I returned to college, I switched my major to English Literature, with a minor in Theater, and never looked back.

Fantasy and play acting were more comfortable for me than reality, and much more fun. Besides, drama classes drew attractive, liberal female students who welcomed openly, even reached out to the broken, twisted, odd males, referring to them as "mysterious, brooding, intellectual, sexually attractive in a weird way"! 

I was accused, for a moment, as being, "talented, different, exciting, and potentially interest" in a sensuous way by a very attractive female theater major, who seemed so far out of my purvey, that I could only nod my head up and down as she spoke, lost in her beauty. Did she not know that I was a mini-Quasimodo, without the muscle or humpback?

Now, in this, perhaps, "Final Chapter of My Life of Little Quakes & Big Mistakes", the expected, family disease, Alzheimer, is forcing me into a slowing creeping silence.

For a compulsive talker, a gabber, a run-on comedian, would be writer the reality of silence is not something that I cherish.

I, too, often, wonder:  "Will I, too, stare for hours at a blank wall, drooling, with a protective helmet on me head, lock in a hospital ward, nursing home, or worse, at home, drain of mental acuity, every dollar my wife and I have, as it did my second oldest sister, and my mother, turning them into stoic, or in articulate best of burden, prisoners of their mind." 

Am I next?  Doomed my genetics, I cannot stop from asking myself? 

At nearly 81, my life seems to have flown by so quickly. At times, I struggle to remember it.

Then, there are moments of clarity when the floodgates open and the memories cascade like an unrelenting flood:  Details, vivid memories, childhood friends, whose names I had lost, return with clarity, their faces, voices, childhood games, places of play, rewinding the film of my youth in vivid colors, tones, feeling and sound, I had forgotten.

I can't stop writing...no matter how senseless, how vapid, or how little of an audience, and I crave an audience. I need an audience. I want an audience, to say, "Yeah, man, I know what you are saying...I feel your pain. You are not alone."

It appears to me, that my memories were never growing older, never changing, never fading, they, simply put, were never lost. I had been looking in the wrong room, not the happy, cheerful, warm one with sunshine, whispering aromas of freshly baked, homemade bread, homemade butter, a meal in itself of my hurtful, disrupted, happy at times childhood.

The images, smells, laughter, that I had long forsaken come rushing back like the wind in one's favorite tree, moments before a Spring shower. My eyes tear, I hear the thumping of my heart.

Excitement, fear open the door to my past, a past that I shuttered, nailed shut long ago, that I barely remembered it. Like the movies at the Alhambra Theater of East Third and Springfield streets, in East Dayton, a working-class, safe neighborhood.

We walked to the cinema, once per month, or, when the new movie was released. Admission was a dime for kids, a quart for adults. Kids movies were every Saturday 10 am, till 2pm. At three the adult films were shown, and only kids with adult could attend after 3:00 pm.

We walked home with our friends, or ran as fast as we could through the back alley, if it was a scary movie like "The Mummy", or the shivering triller, "The Swamp Monster"

 They were my sanctuary. In seconds I was transformed, drawn into it, all else was gone. Such a release to dream, feel, be somewhere, anywhere than here, in this dimension. I soared, sucked up within the movies. They were my respite.

Like all of us, my journey was arduous, exciting, meaningless, painful. It drew me from the Midwest to California, New York city, Montreal and eventual to Europe in search of I know not what. No matter how intriguing, how adventurous there was a nagging sense that something was missing.

My wife brought me back from the dead, revived me with passion, love, a sense of confidence long since drained. The metamorphose completed, we began a life of our own. 

Our life has changed, evolved, incrementally, over the four and a half decades we have been together. Moving from raw, sweltering, unrelenting passion to love to marriage to a home, and a child.  

Now, we spend our time, laser focused on our two grandchildren. Two gifts from God, two bundles of joy, rapidly growing up and drifting, drifting away. Embarking on their own paths, as we fade into memories.

We want to cling to them, to hold them, to never let them go, but they must for they are the future and, we are the past, the present for now, for this moment.

My son is approaching 41, still struggling with alcohol, cocaine addiction, fits of anger, possibly mental illness.  We are exhausted with his struggle. Fearful of how it will end.

Like so many modern parents, we ran the gauntlet, suffering the blows lashing against our backs from psychologists, psychiatrists, group therapy sessions, AAA's 12 Steps, "Tough Love" to "Tough Shit".

How, we asked ourselves, does a young-man with an I.Q. of 128, a straight "A" student, soccer player, our Sun of sons, with so much promise, a young high school student, who never missed a day of high school in four years, a recipient of a Congressional Award for public service, winner of numerous scholarships, a college student who spent two years at a highly rated university turn into a cocaine addict, drunk like my father, filled with anger, rage, and mental issues 

I am retired, my wife should be, but refuses. At 72, she is up at 5:15 am, out the door by 6:15, drives to her work, 50 minutes away where she is a principal of a Pre-school, supervising 8 teachers, 12 aides, and dealing with distraught, at time angry, hurting parents of disabled, mentally challenged, often abused children.

My wife, Pamela Ashby Roberts, is a bright, creative women, sensuous, compassionate woman whose innate leadership abilities, strengths, drive, tenacity has held our family, our daughters-in-law (who has custody of our grandchildren) family, and our son's chaotic life together for far too long.

---------------------------------------------WE MET-----------------------------------------

In 1974, I was in a state of funk, after returning from Hollywood, where me would of been career blew up, returning to my hometown with my tail between my legs, shattered that the "could of, would have, if only" syndrome hung over my head like a black rain cloud, ready to turn into a full-blown storm at a drop of a hat. (So, I never wore a hat.)

Meeting my wife was a God send. A gift.  I returned reluctantly to teaching, talked my way into a job that barely covered the bills, as an Improvisation Theater Teacher at a Free After School Program for Kids, Adults and Nut Jobs in search of the dreams I had just lost.

There she was...this sensuous, voluptuous, full figured, stunning woman. I wanted he right then and there. It was lust at first sight. She was assigned to Stiver High School Auditorium at 6:00 PM to teach piano, and I was assigned there, to teach Improv.

Not one student showed. It was a fortuitous moment. I could not stop staring at her, nor stop looking her up and down vociferously. I did not approach her, or advance. I was a good 20 paces from her. She stood my the piano, with her back to the stage and I was "God Smacked" at the doubled door entranced the auditorium/Theater. 

Years later, she told me that no man had ever, so bluntly looked her up and down, and down and up again with the intensity that I did. She said it turned her on, as well.  

Truthfully, I was afraid to get any closer. I wanted her right, then. Right there, right now, and was terrorize what I might do.

So, I rattled on now stop for nearly an hour, and when we realized no students were coming... I asked her if she like Chinese Food.
I couldn't take my eyes off her. She had one a light, blue, see-through blouse, a white bra, capable to restrain her 42 D cup fabulous breast from bursting forth. White petal pusher pant, so thin I could see the color of her light, blue "unmentionable."

She has been the financial foundation for three families; ours, the grand-kids living with their mother, and my son's. But we survive to stay alive on the love of our grandchildren, and the tenacity of my still beautiful, loving, smart wife. She is the leader of our pack, not me. I am along for the ride. The rode we traveled took a few unexpected turns, but we survived, we thrived, we did not die.

I suspect that is why we went "ga-ga" over our grandchildren. I never knew how much joy a baby girl could bring into our life, until, Kaitlyn, now, 15 entered into our life and took center state.

My son, like so many of his peers, has struggled with alcohol and drugs, employment issues, a terrible, quick temper, terrible friends, and even worst, terrible women, caught up in varying degrees in their terribleness, fueled his dissent, and created 20 plus years of brutalizing pain.

Today, he is working his way out of a stormy past that hurt us, himself, and anyone he had contact with...that is what addiction does. To this day, pangs still burn even though the fires were extinguished long ago.

We, my wife and I, and our son (our immediate family) have healed, a little bit with each passing day, but the wounds are still sore, not as much, but they linger in the quiet of the night, in our dreams, our hopes for the future.

My wife made certain that our grandchildren would have had a good, exciting, interesting life, filled with more " Goodtimes " than bad, more U ps, than down, more Jingle than jangle!

To this day, to this hour, to this moment, no matter how bruised, we are grateful for the ride. 

Bob Dylan's haunting, poetic lyrics cling, for me "to the shadows of my mind", lingering like the unseen parlor dust, in this old historic, haunted house that creaks out, only at night, softly mirroring every word of Dylan's song, "The times they are a changin'".

Indeed. they are.

I would prefer, they didn't.

Is that not what our journey is ... embracing change, understanding, enlightenment?

Currently, as grandparents, we are caught in their web...willingly. But "things they are a changing"!


A Work in Progress: 

My granddaughter, a sensitive, beauty, is going on 15. Her brother, only 11 months behind are known as "Irish Twins". Their love washed over us like Niagara Falls in the Spring, washing us clean, renewing our sense of self.

Colin is 14, Kaitlyn at 15 is evolving faster than any parent or grandparents wants.  Stay still, we are not finish hugging you.

They are as different as night is too day.

Until their teens, the oldest looked after her little brother, as if he were her charge.
In first grade, she ran as quickly as she could to the playground to make certain her brother, (the little, blonde, quite by nature brother was not alone. She made sure he had someone to play with, to talk, to run like wild fawns.

Now, when I ask where is so and so, they shrug, "I don't know, as if they don't know each other, or who I am referring. They still are close, but drifting away on their own skiffs, as the seasons, interests pull them in different directions.

My wife and I have been together for 48 years, married 46, drawn to these two gifts from God, as a flowering plant is to the Sun. They brought us joy, a renewed sense of life, a mission, unfiltered love.  I never knew I could love as much as we loved the two of them.

As teenagers, their closeness is sliding, sliding away as it must. As grandparents, we understand, but the sense of loss is still there. It is incremental, as, at our age we are becoming.

I know longer have regrets, my wife, I suspect, has a few. I wonder at times that maybe I may be one of her regrets. Then she smiles at me, and my inter tears are washed away.

My wife is the anchor, the mast, the lifeboat in our life; the focus, the center of existence.

Now, they, as we were warned, are slipping, slipping away from us, as they spread their wings, mature, map out a path with my wife tender nudging.

I miss their hugs, their laughter, their crawling bodies on my lap, their joy. I feel lonely, a little abandoned, under appreciated. Although my wife has been the beacon in my life for the past 48 years, we are still close.

Over nearly a half century our relationship has grown. The passion has waned, grown into joy, understanding, conversation, trust. It is nice to be loved, and to love.

I had four older sisters, and one younger one. Growing up in the forties, sisters did their thing, and out raced out the door of 30 N. Terry Street, in a working-class neighborhood, filled with friends, adventures without fear.

Things were different. Milk was delivered in class bottles by a horse drawn wagon. " The Ice Man Cometh" via the same route, the same means. He was a strapping giant of a man, decked out with a mahogany leather apron, a block of ice resting on a leather pad atop his shoulder, secured by a sharp, sharp hook that he squeezed in his right hand balancing it every so expertly. 

He was efficient, competent, polite. He moved swiftly, adroitly, finished his job the same, as if it was one ballet movement.

"How much do you need, Mrs. Roberts?" He slammed the huge chunk on our large, wooden round, hardwood kitchen table and with a swift movement of his ice pick, cut off the exact amount my mother needed.

He glanced at me, winked, held out a piece of ice that broke off in the process. I chewed on it and watched and, he gracefully exited our grey, unpainted duplex, two story wood framed house.

On Tuesday the Vegetable vendor clumped down our brick street. His horse was magnificent. But he wasn't. He was reticent, only repeating, "Vegetables! Vegetables!" he sang, with a musical tone that lured, enticed, invited every home-bound mother, grandmother, eldest daughter to the cobbled brick street to pick carefully thorough the variety of items, as if they were precious gems, delivered to front of their home.

I was born in 1942, 5 weeks after Pearl Harbor. Vegetable gardens in the back yard's was commonplace, but the Vegetable Vendors had a variety to choose from.

We had a two-party dial phone that rang with an edgy, guttural, menacing sound, like rotators' grousing.

In the 50's with the end of WWII, death of FDR, Truman, and Eisenhower, and the economy booming. Swing was big, jazz, blues, and the rise of Rock 'N Roll promised a new world with endless possibilities. 

My world began to crumble, then crashed into sharp shredded memories filled with fear, drunkenness, abuse, as I fished out my dad from one neighborhood bar to another dragging him home for dinner.

The worst was the chaos that ensued when my father, drunk beyond anything I had ever seen, awoke the household (my mother, me and my four older sisters with the stumbling noises, laughter that my father and his lover, Virginia made, as he pushed her upstairs to our bedroom. 

I awoke to my mother's shrill, angry voice, "Get Out of my house, who do you think you are. You are not coming in here. Get out!"

I leaped out of bed, rushed to my mother side, only to see this incredibly, sensuous, drunk Elizabeth Taylor, black-haired, big-busted beauty struggle toward the top of the stair, while my father, laughed, fell and staggered to get up from the bottom of the stairs.

"I hope, Mrs. Roberts, that when I become your age...I'll look as good as you do," which to my raven-haired mother was the equivalent to throwing gasoline on a raging fire.

When the siren, a beauty passed around from one drunk patron to another, until she found one that would pay her apartment, rent, pay for groceries, and their bar tab, or she would move on.

I didn't see what the problem was. She could sleep with me in my bed and mom and dad could sleep in their metal springs squeaking bed, seemed like a logical solution. 

Then there would be no problem and we all could go back to sleep, including my giggling sisters who, as the noise, shouting and tensions increased stuck their heads out from their bedroom, which was only 4 feet across the top of the stairs.

Six people lived in a two bedroom, two story house, with no bathtub only a commode, sink, mirror, screened window for ventilation during all the season at the end of the narrow room, lighted by a single, light bulb with an off-off string.



jrDiscussion - desc
Professor Principal
1  Kavika     4 months ago

Remembrance, good and bad. We all have them.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
1.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Kavika @1    4 months ago

Yep, if you mix them together you will never need Viagra, again. Even if you are a wounded, Pusey-whip whiner.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
1.2  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Kavika @1    4 months ago

And some haunt us. The good fade, the bad, the ugly fester in the back of one's brain they are let loose in some form or another.  

At nearly 81, I am trying to give them the boot. But they are strong, devious, hurtful, inspiring, even dangerous.

Professor Principal
1.2.1  Kavika   replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @1.2    4 months ago

I'm 82 so perhaps some of our experiences might be similar. In life, I believe that we are all trying to give them the boot, but they do have a tendency to hang on.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
1.2.2  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Kavika @1.2.1    4 months ago

Einstein once told me that sopheric acid dipped in eye drops was always his first choice. 

Professor Quiet
1.2.3  cjcold  replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @1.2    4 months ago

Our memories whether good or bad; real or imagined shape us. 

Had a very weird dream last night that I won't be shaking off for awhile.

Watched so many die in reality no matter my efforts to revive them.

My dreams will never be as bad as my horrible memories.

I have a talent for waking myself up from subconscious nightmares.

Professor Principal
1.2.4  Kavika   replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @1.2    4 months ago
Your heart will fix itself. It’s your mind you need to worry about. Your mind where you locked the memories, your mind where you have kept pieces of the ones that hurt you, that still cut through you like shards of glass. Your mind will keep you up at night, make you cry, destroy you over and over again. You need to convince your mind that it has to let go…because your heart already knows how to heal.”
― Nikita Gill
Raven Wing
Professor Guide
1.2.5  Raven Wing  replied to  Kavika @1.2.4    4 months ago

An excellent quote, Kavika. Thank you for sharing it with us.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
1.2.6  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  cjcold @1.2.3    4 months ago

Were you in the service?

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
1.2.7  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Kavika @1.2.4    4 months ago

Thank you!

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
1.2.8  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Raven Wing @1.2.5    4 months ago

Ditto, that!

Professor Quiet
1.2.9  Ed-NavDoc  replied to  cjcold @1.2.3    4 months ago

Same for me with my PTSD. I have dreams about when I was flying as medevac Navy Hospital Corpsman on USMC Hueys and second guess myself on the ones who did not survive under my care. I wake up screaming and in tears. Scares my adult daughter who lives with me.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
1.2.10  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Kavika @1.2.1    one week ago

Can you believe that "Dirty Diaper Donnie" is going to "RUN", again.

The only thing he should run for is a COMMODE!

From your writing, I would never believe that you were 82. The older I get, the more fun I am having as a writer of "Political Pornographer"!

Life for me gets better and better as I get older.   

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
1.2.11  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Ed-NavDoc @1.2.9    one week ago

That must have been a devastating tour of duty.  

Professor Principal
2  JohnRussell    4 months ago

I think it's nice you put your memories of growing up down in words on this forum for all to see. 

Its also cool that you dropped the "Mad Magazine" style of writing for a little bit. 

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
2.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  JohnRussell @2    4 months ago

John, you have been, and continue to me a guide. Thank you!

Truth is a bone, too often overlooked. There are nutrients everywhere. (You have been a good virtual friend.)

Drinker of the Wry
Freshman Principal
2.1.1  Drinker of the Wry  replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @2.1    4 months ago
Truth is a bone, too often overlooked. There are nutrients everywhere. (You have been a good virtual friend.)

Canned sardines are too often overlooked and the bones in them are easily digested and very nutritious, that’s the virtual truth

Junior Participates
2.1.2  GregTx  replied to  Drinker of the Wry @2.1.1    4 months ago

My Dad used to carry a can of sardines, pack of crackers and onion everyday for lunch when he was a young man. Said he loved 'em and as a bonus it helped keep the skeeters away...

Drinker of the Wry
Freshman Principal
2.1.3  Drinker of the Wry  replied to  GregTx @2.1.2    4 months ago

I learned to enjoy sardines with my grandfather, that and Limburger cheese.

Today, I enjoy sardines on salad, with capers and black olives, sardines in Spanish rice, in pasta and on a sandwich, bread or crackers.  

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
2.1.4  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Drinker of the Wry @2.1.1    4 months ago

I enjoyed eating them as a child. They were as you said.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
2.1.5  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Drinker of the Wry @2.1.3    4 months ago

I am hungry, and that sound wonderful.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
2.1.6  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Drinker of the Wry @2.1.1    one week ago

Yes, I know. I haven't had them since I was a kid.
You make me hungry for them with that post.

Professor Quiet
2.2  cjcold  replied to  JohnRussell @2    4 months ago

As a musician/songsmith I understand how the Eater thinks at times. 

Professor Quiet
2.2.1  cjcold  replied to  cjcold @2.2    4 months ago

Sat on a 'loveseat' backstage with Bob Marley once. A few years before he died of melanoma. 

He didn't pass his big spleef to me or anybody else.

His guys knew to just toss joints back and forth between them and us. It was a game of catch.

Didn't take long for us to figure out the protocol (us being the Blue Riddum Band).

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
2.2.2  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  cjcold @2.2    4 months ago

I wrote poetry in college, and when the loneliness was so intense, I couldn't sleep, or understand why.  

I would write out my feelings, well into the night, correct the phrases, then, with a weight lifted from me, I would fall to sleep. I carried those poems, writings, etc. in a backpack for a number of years when I returned to college.

My professors would often read my work to the class, as I would in my Creative Writing. My work was rejected over and over again, so many time, that one morning I tossed the pack pack with years of my work into a dumpster.

I felt an instant release. But, gradually over the years, I have regrated that impulsive action. For with it with a chunk of my soul that I have never been able to retrieve. 

For years, I was able to recall, even recite some of my work. Slowly, they have evaporated. I miss them. They held me together, assuaged by sense of self, wrapped a wall of confidence about me. Now that they are gone, I have a sense of emptiness, loss that I cannot shape.

I turned to comedy, satire, political swathing, but it is not the same.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
2.2.3  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  cjcold @2.2.1    4 months ago

That is lit, man. That is pure poetry. Gifted, dude.

Buzz of the Orient
Professor Principal
3  Buzz of the Orient    4 months ago

Being five years older than you, your essay evoked memories of my own, although not quite so colourful, delivery of a block of ice for my grandmother's cottage ice box and getting that piece of ice to suck on, milk delivered in glass bottles with the cream risen to the top, a "Victory Garden" behind the garage, and dial phones with party lines, but not the drama that you witnessed.  In fact I'm still laughing from this line:

"I hope, Mrs. Roberts, that when I become your age...I'll look as good as you do," which to my raven-haired mother was the equivalent to throwing gasoline on a raging fire.
Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
3.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Buzz of the Orient @3    4 months ago

Thanks, Buzz!

charger 383
Professor Quiet
4  charger 383    4 months ago

That is how life was, thanks for sharing. 

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
4.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  charger 383 @4    4 months ago

Yes, sometimes, when my granddaughter reminds me that I am from another century...I begin to remember how different my life is from her experiences.

As a teen, my mother told me about her family leaving Minnesota on a Cover Wagon to get to South Dakota and qualify for 160 free acres and a mule. 

I was embarrassed, humiliated! "Why would she tell me about her destitute, primitive life?" 

Now, I wished that I had listened more closely.

Drinker of the Wry
Freshman Principal
4.1.1  Drinker of the Wry  replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @4.1    4 months ago

I still remember my daughter asking me why I use the phrase "dial a phone number'.  Fortunately, I had an old, phone in the basement to show her.  She was surprised at the size, weight and of course, the rotary dial.

Professor Quiet
4.1.2  cjcold  replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @4.1    4 months ago

My great, great, great grandfather built the first wind powered grain mil ln Kansas.

My great, great grandfather opened the first Chevy dealership in Kansas. 

My grandfather brought electric power to our county.

My father owned a bank and a whole town.

All I do is flaunt a $100,000.00 Rolex and a few fast cars.

My college degrees involve environmental science and saving the planet.

Seems I'm letting my ancestors down and have no idea how to remedy that.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
4.1.3  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  cjcold @4.1.2    4 months ago

cjcold, you are an artist, a writer, that is your gift.  There is no need to follow in someone else's footsteps. You are walking in your own.

We are not the same as others. It is difficult to accept the fact that we are talented, want different thing, see and feel the world differently.

Your ancestors did their thing, and they were good at it, successful, contributed to humanity, but we do as well, in another soulful way.

Your journey is calling you to a different path, take it. No one that loves you expects you to follow in someone's else shoes, if they do, then, they do not know you. 

You are not required to emulate your ancestors, or anyone.  
Do your own thing, and fuck 'em.

People build empires, a poem, or a song is just as strong.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
5  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It    4 months ago

I have more editing to do, but grow weary after a short spurt, need a nap, a dictionary break and a snack.

Professor Principal
5.1  CB   replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @5    4 months ago

Keep your strength up, "old-timer!"  I hope you got that editing completed. As I am 'bout to start reading any 'minute' now! :)

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
5.1.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  CB @5.1    4 months ago

The strangest thing, CB, as I start to edit, I am carried away in a burst of energy, rarely get it done, jamming up the keyboard with another preamble.

At times, I do try to re-edit my work, but the effusion will not allow me to look backwards, it forces me into another incomprehensible rush, and such, I feel is the power of bi-bolar storms.

I have stopped taking my mood meds and started howling at the Moon.  Can you hear me, where you are?

At nearly 81, I know not how much time I have to ramble...I intend to do so until the end.

Professor Principal
5.1.2  CB   replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @5.1.1    4 months ago

Well, I did note the edit process was. . . 'stalled' a bit. All is forgiven. Age is a factor for which you have earned all your proportioned laurels. Sit by a stream, watch the children laugh, and put on some good tunes and read and write what is in your heart as often as you like! :) Who cares why elephants are fat? And anyway-why can't donkeys fly?

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
5.1.3  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  CB @5.1.2    4 months ago

You have been a good, virtual friend to me. I rely on your replies. I know not why. But, they are like manna to a parched man. Thank you, CB, for being a friend.

Finally, I feel like I am slinking in, every so softly, into the inner den surrounded by a growing glow of friends, even if they are virtual, they feel like real friends, maybe, even better.

Professor Principal
5.1.4  CB   replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @5.1.3    4 months ago

Yeah, well we can't get 'looted' by donation scams in the virtual world! jrSmiley_34_smiley_image.gif   All those, 'Feed the polar bears, tigers, elephants, cows, cats, dogs, babies, lions, ->breathes<- are just too much already!

You like me because people like us we don't give in and we don't give out! We can't lose! We got this! Life, at any age, is as good as it gets, because we accept nothing, I mean nuthin ' less! Whatever I am, whatever I got, whosoever I am holding on to. . . they're mind and I ain't letting go of any of it! Because I'm, we're, giving it the best that we got!

Cheers, sir!

Now,. . . how about some mayonnaise on your fish sandwich or are you good?!

Junior Participates
5.1.5  shona1  replied to  CB @5.1.4    4 months ago

Morning CB... forget the mayo, I can send some Vegemite...that will have Eats firing on all cylinders in no time.

Professor Principal
5.1.6  CB   replied to  shona1 @5.1.5    4 months ago

Morning Shona!! Send extra Vegamite in a 'care package' to CB! I might like firing a few cylinders too!

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
5.1.7  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  shona1 @5.1.5    one week ago

Please do, I am ready to get make in me girdle and whip up some more SHAT for T-Rump to eat.

Professor Quiet
5.2  cjcold  replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @5    4 months ago

I also make a living editing the mistakes of others. Some folks just can't write.

Drinker of the Wry
Freshman Principal
5.2.1  Drinker of the Wry  replied to  cjcold @5.2    4 months ago
Some folks just can't write.

Victims of our public school education?

Perrie Halpern R.A.
Professor Principal
5.2.2  Perrie Halpern R.A.  replied to  Drinker of the Wry @5.2.1    4 months ago

Or they didn't take advantage of what was offered to them... 

I saw a lot of that when I was a public school teacher.

Drinker of the Wry
Freshman Principal
5.2.3  Drinker of the Wry  replied to  Perrie Halpern R.A. @5.2.2    4 months ago

My wife is a public school teacher and complains of the same, parents, what can we do?

Perrie Halpern R.A.
Professor Principal
5.2.4  Perrie Halpern R.A.  replied to  Drinker of the Wry @5.2.3    4 months ago

It's a story as old as time. Just think back to when you were a kid. There were always kids who were underachievers. Positive reinforcement maybe?

Drinker of the Wry
Freshman Principal
5.2.5  Drinker of the Wry  replied to  Perrie Halpern R.A. @5.2.4    4 months ago
Positive reinforcement maybe?

Like participation trophies?

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
5.2.6  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  cjcold @5.2    4 months ago

That is a gift. I have a manuscript that I wrote in a heat when my Best Friend died, ten years ago. It begs to be edited. I cannot return to it.

Professor Quiet
5.2.7  cjcold  replied to  Perrie Halpern R.A. @5.2.4    4 months ago
Positive reinforcement maybe?


Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
5.2.8  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  cjcold @5.2    one week ago

Well, how much would you charge and old, nearly senile Octogenarian to edit one of his Opuses on Eat The Press
Do Not Read It?

I write in a fury, edit it like a deeply disturbed Owl.

I update, er...edited the opening paragraphs, but run out of steam after that.

Take a gander over to the "The Hells Angels of Literature", which is what my many critics label my artistic drools. 

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
5.2.9  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Perrie Halpern R.A. @5.2.2    4 days ago

I am so delighted that you took the time from your busy schedule to post to this miserable dog.

You know, Pee-Air, most people think that I am
NUTS, even my admitting psychiatrist. I am just different...born upside-down and backwards. It took me 69 years to realize what a blessing it is, and a skill.

Hope you still remember me. My parents couldn't after 7 months.  They just told all seven of us, that they "were going to the groceries store, and never came back.

It wasn't until I grew up and moved away that I realized that I was living with the neighbors.

That explains my neediness. 

PS:  I am back...front, too, after spending over four months crying in the wind because no one, and I mean no one commented on my EPISTLES.

CB, who is very kind, did spat on one. But that is not enough. I need confirmation that I am here, and not stuck in a Mental Institution for the Weird, from which I must escape.

"Thank you, Mrs. Rogers, for being my neighbor."

Professor Principal
6  JohnRussell    4 months ago

What a heartfelt reminiscence. !!

I hope everyone here reads it. 

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
6.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  JohnRussell @6    4 days ago

Man, can you fabricate the tooth!

Professor Principal
7  CB     4 months ago

Okay, my dear and adorable friend you may deserve to get in as much trouble as Eddie Murphy found himself when he joked about AIDS being on the lips of women after kissing their homosexual friends. (Take that blue-joke-out of your line-up!)

Now, turning to other things. . . how about that peaceful and beautifully landscaped garden of color image you supplied us to indulge our eyes upon? PRECIOUS.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
7.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  CB @7    4 months ago

I am in the mood to vent me anger.

Professor Principal
7.1.1  CB   replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @7.1    4 months ago

Oh-oh! Lighting bolts and thunderclaps in dark clouds are breaching the horizon. . . and then the warm, cool, radiance of your sunny disposition burst into full view of the stage of your existence and the lights came up. . . and we all sang a celebration song around you before we broke up to go back 'home'!  :):):)

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
7.1.2  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  CB @7.1.1    one week ago

CB:  You are a good virtual friend and the finest Bull Chipper I know.

Love ya, Bro

Did I ever tell you about going to an all-Black College in 1960. There were only six white students in my freshman class.

It was exhilarating, frightening, an eye-opening...a monumental moment in my life.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
7.2  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  CB @7    4 days ago

From the very beginning of our online friendship, I thought you were a plant Voyer or.

Masters Expert
8  Veronica    4 months ago

It is very good....and I love how you get the memories in there.  I know some are sad and some are happy... We have to live through the sad so we realize there are happy ones.

Childhood memories can color our outlooks so much (or at least I have found that to be true).  I have tried to do better than my parents with my kids, but I see the mistakes I have made.  

I will be back to read more when you continue (you did say a work in process).

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
8.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Veronica @8    one week ago

I did, but I should call it a "A Work In Editing."

I keep going back and rewriting it as fast as I can, which changes everything. I have since the age of 9 wanted to tell the stories of growing up in a dysfunctional family in the 1940s -50s.

I am constantly verbalizing, obsessing about it in me heard, then struggling to put it to pen.

I have 5 sisters, who had 5 different stories...

The humor assuages my pain, lifts me up, and often I cannot let go of it to tell the story that haunts me. 

Thank you for your kind words, understanding and uplifting comments. 

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
8.2  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Veronica @8    4 days ago

The odd thing is I can only recall memories when I write. Most of the time it is blank white wall, and a nurse who goes by the name of 
Miss Rachet.

Do you know her? She claims that Jack Nichols had a thing for her.

pat wilson
Professor Guide
9  pat wilson    4 months ago

"The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain."

                                                                                                                              Kahil Gibran 

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
9.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  pat wilson @9    4 months ago

I just missed the joy train, not for running...put for the pain, the fear that held me back. The next time it rush by I shall jump aboard with confidence.  Thank you for helping me look up, rather than always down.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
9.2  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  pat wilson @9    one week ago

Pat, I still have my Kahil Griban's book, "The Prophet"! Thank for reminding me of that great writer. 

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
9.3  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  pat wilson @9    one week ago

The older I get, the truer that statement becomes!

Professor Principal
10  CB     4 months ago

Gulp! Lots to digest there. I will need a minute. . . but before I take the specified amount of time. . . I am reminded on something I recall: The milk delivery man. Lordy! That man had some of the richest tasting buttermilk in a jar money could buy! Hmm mm.  Now here is the 'thang': Is there even butter in buttermilk?!

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
10.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  CB @10    4 months ago

Yes, he did. What struck me was his size, strength, his calmness, efficiency, and quiet manner. I liked the ice, his kind gesture, but, always wished that he would linger longer. That image lingers to this day.

I never was much of a milk drinker. I do not remember its taste, I remember the feeling, although fleeting, of safety I felt with him near.

Professor Principal
10.1.1  CB   replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @10.1    4 months ago

We always got the buttermilk and chocolate milk delivery. Oh my I just had a memory: taking off the paper tab top pressed down and sealed around the top of the bottles. :)

We got our ice blocks from the ice facility 'up the street' a ways. We drove for it.

Sophomore Guide
11  Thomas    4 months ago
It was as if the words I wanted were on an elevator, the doors open, I could see them clearly stacked neatly in the back of the elevator on the floor. They just refused to jump off before the door closed. It was a stalemate, the doors remained open.

This describes my speech aphasia. 

I get the sentences all lined up and ready to go in my brain, and then sometimes the words make it all the way out of my mouth and sometimes they get lost in the translation between thought and the spoken word.

Thank you very much for sharing.

Professor Principal
12  CB     4 months ago

Those Were The Days My Friend - Mary Hopkin -Lyrics On Screen

I remember going to the Ice House and using an ice pick. . . but what I do not remember is. . . the purposes of buying blocks of ice. . . my family was not the 'party' type back then!

"We'd sing and dance forever and a day!"

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
12.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  CB @12    4 months ago

Thanks, I remember that song, but, never was it more meaningful that when I played it hear.

Professor Principal
12.1.1  CB   replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @12.1    4 months ago

She has good 'wind' to sing that song!  Aah youth - those were the days, eh?

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
12.1.2  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  CB @12.1.1    one week ago

Not for me. Now, going on 81, I understand what the GOLDEN YEARS are, and they ain't about "Golden Showers", Mister Trump.

Her voice is beautiful...I forgot about that song. I did love it. But my youth, teens, and early adulthood were filled with ups and downs...more downs than up, until I married my wife on June 12, 1976.

I was 34, and she was 26. We have been together going on 47 years.

And, for me LIFE get better each passing day, every passing minute, ever passing hour. We had some moments, but very, very few.

I guess I had a lot to learn. Slowly, I am learning.
I am no angry, bitter, hate filled, jealous, filled with remorse, disappointed that my 13-year-old dreams never fully came true.

I did dance around the edges, came close, lost my confidence and fell in a deep hole that nearly consumed me.

GOD answered by prays in 1974. It took me two years to realize it. When I did, we married, had a son, two grandchildren that taught us to love all over again.

I was down for the count in 1974, lost, unemployed, major depression, regretful that my acting, stand-up comedy, writing careers blew up, over and over again, until I was exhausted. I returned to college, got a degree, started teaching, but knew this was not the life I envisioned for myself.

My dreams, my hope, my prayers for success my talents were Flat-out gone! Fear griped me, loneliness sucked the life out of me. I was a loser, mentally losing my mind, hungry, thin, friendless, penniless, estranged from my family, friends, the world.

My mind and body ached, I slept in parks, hustled, held a variety of meaningless jobs, hurt, but unable to put pen to paper.  Smoked way too much grass, 

I was moments away from suicide, when I had a long conversation with GOD, and laid it all out, in detailed.

Told GOD what I needed in A WOMAN.  At the end of what seemed like an hour long, tearful oral conversation with GOD, in my one-bedroom, walk-up apartment in Dayton, Ohio, I confessed my sins, and ask for HIS help.

At the end, I felt marginally better, realized that I was still certified as a Substitute Teacher, walked or drove down to the Board of Education.

They were not hiring at that time but told me about a creative After-School Program that just started up and suggested that that might be more suited to my interests, varied experiences and skillset.

I was hired to teach Improvisation Theater and assigned to Stiver H.S. auditorium.
When I walked in, there she was in white petal pushers, a see-thorough thin Spring blouse, a light blue bra, blonde hair, full lips, blue eyes, and a body I could not take my eyes off.

She was assigned to the same classroom, the same time as I was to teach piano.

Not one student showed up for either one of our classes.

I talked non-stop for the complete hour, lusting for her, eye her up and down, not caring if it upset or bothered her.  Later she said that it didn't, it made he swoon.

I asked her if she like Chinese food, she did. I told her about a cute, lovely, romantic restaurant that opened recently in a two-story brick home on Wayne Ave, not far from us.

I gushed all though that dinner meal, staring constantly at her full beautiful breasts that I could see rising and falling. I wanted to take her right there, knocking over the plate and making wanton love to her for hours.

When we finished eating one of the most sensuous meals of my life, I reached for my wallet, and to my horror and shock, I had left on my dresser.

I was so humiliated, she asked me, "Is everything OK"?

"No," I replied like a man who had been run over by a Mack truck.

I explained what happened that I had no money, I left my wallet at home.

She smiled those blue eyes were looking at me, now, and said, with a light chuckle, "It's OK. I'll pay for it."

She has been paying ever since. She is everything I needed, everything I wanted, down to the playing piano, sensuous.

For the first two years it was all lust, off and on, a careful dance around a raging fire. 

I was regaining my feet, bursting with renewed energy, sparking, creative, exciting about life.

It took me two years to go from LUST & NEED to 
this new thing...LOVE!

Now, at nearly 81, with a lifetime of love, it does seem like a blink of an eye.

Before, when I held someone say that I couldn't wrap my head around it.

Now, I, too, understand what they meant when they said, "It seems like only yesterday."

Love is a potion from GOD!

Thank you for indulging me. I love telling that story.

It is a portion I take every nanosecond I am alive, "with every breathe I take", and I believe I take with me to the other side of the rainbow.



GOD LIVES WITHIN ALL OF US, whether or not we live within him!

I am skeptical if GOD has anything to do with organized religions. In 1971, after taking a peyote petal, given to me by a very kind Navaho Indian, I fell through to the "Center of the Universe," where I heard GOD VOICE.

He said, "I can only do good!" (Meaning GOD can only do good). I did not know I was seeking that answer. 

I had gone from child's God to No God, to studying about the Biblical Jesus, to a weird sense of God with my college roommate, when we decided that we had master college after the first semester of our sophomore year, hit the road in routed to getting jobs on a Freighter and going to Europe free, then, backpacking though Europe looking, searching for the purpose of life, God, writing poetry, having serious discussions with artists, musicians, poets, writers, sculptures', religious junkies...searching, always searching for something just out of reach on-the road NYC, Greenwich Village, The Bowery,  Montreal, Canada where our dream was shattered by a FREIGHTER CAPTAIN that told us in no uncertain terms we had to be certified by the Freighters Union, know something about sea travel, and maritime skill, "until that time get the fuck off my ship!"

Fast forward to the peyote hallucinatory petal it (GOD'S voice was a clear as a ringing church bell.

When I heard the message, I instantaneously, flipped backwards, feet over head, without fear, and slide from one dimension to this dimension.

Unfortunately, I missed interrupted what GOD said.
I bolted to my roommate's side, and said:

"GOD has limitations!" I shouted out to my roommate who said, "Ok", and went right on smoking his hashish pipe.

It took three years before I had another encounter with GOD, before I slowly understood it's meaning.

I hope I am not boring you, because I am having a whale of a good time.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
12.1.3  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @12.1.2    4 days ago

I think by no, you all should have figured it out. I am trying to get the comments up to 100.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
12.1.4  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @12.1.3    4 days ago

If you help me, I promise I will stop pestering you! 


Like Trump, I don't mind cheating.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
12.2  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  CB @12    one week ago

Those were the days, on some days, in some years, but not always.
I do dig my "Golden Years".

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
12.2.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @12.2    4 days ago

Donald, I did not say "Golden Showers", so put that itsy-bitsy thing away, and for once in your damn life take a shower.

You smell like SHAT!

Oh, sorry, "Dirty Diaper Donnie" that is your overflowing DEPENDS.

Can't you steal some from Melanoma's dresser drawer.  You know, damn well, that Ghouianni has a room stacked to the ceiling with them.

I am certain if you grant him another "Pardon Me, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden"!

He is so addled headed, Ruby, won't know the difference. He still thinks you're POTUS, instead of just a POS!


Your Friend (Not Really) Jonathan Livingston Pigeon -  

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
12.2.2  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @12.2.1    4 days ago

Certainly, all of this work deserves an award of some kind.

How about, "Most Spelling Errors", or "Can't Type Worth Shat", that's novel.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
12.2.3  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @12.2.2    4 days ago

Je-soup, do I have to do all the work to get to 100 comments. Have you no decency? (That could be a little overworked)

I am dying here. In the old days, the audiences were kind enough to throw "Rotten Eggs." Those I could use.

But, silence. That pricks the prick the harsh us! Have you no decency?

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
13  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It    6 days ago

Just between you posters, and me, how much money do I have to pay you to get a "Like", and or a RAVING REVIEW.

I am a personal friend of Elon, so money is no object. You post a flattering comment and I'll send you your donation/money ASAPY!

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
14  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It    6 days ago

I have supported CG's entire family for over four years.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
15  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It    6 days ago

You know my fellow newstalkers.comrades, I am getting a suspicious, down in the dirt, old-timey feeling that Trump's MAGAS have infiltrate our pristine site, here, on the ButtKickersNewsSmackDownSite that come to U-Haul, "Free", when you pay $8.00 per month, plus "Shating & Handling fees!"

Folks, don't cry fee me, fer a modest service charge of ONLY$175.00 for the first month, multiplied by 2 every other month until you no longer have to worry about MONEY, cause you ain't got any left. 
Don't "CRY ME A RIVER", so that I can Cry a River Over You. That don't solve nothing. 

Is I wrong? Paranoid, rattled, or losing what I never had before, common sense. Please, share your common sense with me, and I will FOLLOW BACK!                         

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
16  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It    5 days ago

My apologies, Fellow Fiends, much of this information may seem too erudite for you. Be assured that it is for me, as well.

That is why I hire a "Deaf, Dumb, and Blind" interrupter to read it to me.

Try it, you might like it. That is what they say about Oral Sex and look how far that has spread around the globe.

LOVE YA! (No, I don't. I just said that so you would read it, instead of chew it up and spit on it.)

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
17  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It    5 days ago

One day, when you are "Old and Grey", you're look back on these essays and say why didn't they teach that in schools? Instead of burn them. The least they could have done is to "BAND" them.

Schools have bands!

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
18  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It    5 days ago

If you would like to edit any of these scrolls, feel free to do so. I can't. This is the best that I can do.  But you, people who can actually read, right, and tell stories, might want to have pity on an old man trapped in an ever-evaporating mind... Could do so, by sending me all the money you have in your bank accounts, like those good people did with Jim Jones.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
19  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It    5 days ago

Perhaps, I should add Naked Photos, that catches people's eye and other appendages?  What say you, my, "Silent Friends"?

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Guide
20  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It    4 days ago

When I was a kid, studying for the ELECTRIC CHAIR, my mother was a Republican. My Father was a Democrat, so when I became a man, I Put My Childish Things Away, and Took the Road Less Traveled...
"The Chicken Shat Road," and registered as an Independent, and that have is, indeed, the one less travelled.


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