As I get older, it takes longer for the aches and pains to subside.
Wearing out slowly, slower to recover.
My mind is slower to respond, to recall fond memories.
And the lies I have told others and to myself, are harder to tell from the memories of all I’ve done, all I’ve seen, and all I’ve been through.
Stitched together, like a quilt of disparate fabrics.
Burlap. Silk. Cotton. Paper towels.
Tug on it hard enough, and the seams fray, and it all comes apart.
And I am left naked, confused, and tired.
Sitting in the tatters of life.
America’s first and greatest writer.
A dedicated family man, who suffered one tragedy to the next.
His brother… his son… his daughter… his wife.
Exhausted and frail, and in constant pain.
So lonely and sad. He would cry himself to sleep.
That’s when Mark Twain took over.
But you probably knew him as that lecturer and cynical humorist.
Dressed in his finest white suit, his shock of white hair and bushy mustache.
The crowds greeted him as he traveled the world.
Samuel would wake up in a new place, bloodied, confused and bewildered.
What did Mark do now?
You know what the problem with magicians is?
Magicians like to make things disappear.
They start with playing cards and ping pong balls, and they stuff torn-up newspaper into the other hand until it vanishes.
Rabbits disappear, assistants disappear, elephants disappear.
One magician made a whole airplane disappear.
Another made the Statue of Liberty disappear.
Prime time television was nothing but magicians making things disappear.
I got sick of all these stupid magicians making things disappear.
That’s about when I stopped watching them, and got cable.
Movies, sports, and stand-up comedy made the magicians disappear.
I stood up and applauded.
Sure, Billy the Kid was a famous outlaw.
I, for one, would have rather faced Billy the Kid than Billy the IRS Auditor or Billy the Really Slow Register Girl At The Grocery Store.
If you treated Billy the Kid with respect, he’d treat you with respect.
Billy the IRS Auditor is a cold-blooded picky son of a bitch. And Billy the Really Slow Register Girl At The Grocery Store won’t just waste your time, but he’ll deliberately put your bread at the bottom of the bag.
For that, Billy the Kid was justified in shooting both of those motherfuckers.
When you hear Code Blue, a patient’s heart has failed and needs resuscitation.
When you hear Code Black, there’s a bomb or suspicious object.
When you hear Code Yellow, look for the missing person.
When you hear Code Red, Colonel Jessup wants you to beat the crap out of someone.
When you hear Code Pink, try to ignore the ugly middle-aged women who are screaming at Jews about how Israel is evil.
When you hear Code White, there’s a violent person in the building.
It’s usually when the Code Pink bitches get in Colonel Jessup’s face.
Don’t fuck with him.
Mansions, guest houses, long driveways, fences and gates.
Gardens tended by gardeners nobody sees, pools nobody swims in.
Perfectly mowed lawns that have never seen a picnic.
Boats that haven’t left their docks in years, if ever.
There are no public schools. Kids went to boarding schools in Switzerland of France.
When there were kids.
They live in the city, work in the city.
And talk about “the place in the country.”
But never find the time. Never make the time.
Another gallery opening, another show to see.
Another merger or millions to make.
While Hampton Hills sleeps.
Ted hobbled around on a bad knee, and when people asked, he said he had an old football injury.
No, Ted didn’t play football.
He was rushing to the Star Wars toys aisle at Toys R Us, but had to go through the Sports section.
Someone had left a football on the floor, and he tripped over it, hurting his knee.
An ambulance came to pick up Ted and take him to the emergency room.
He had health insurance, so everything was covered.
And when he got out of the hospital, he bought that Limited Edition Boba Fett from eBay.
In school, we learned about the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act.
But nobody ever taught us who were Smoot and Hawley?
I looked them up in WikiPedia
Reed Smoot was a Senator from Utah, a businessman and devout Mormon.
He was one of the church’s Twelve Apostles, but he still became a Senator.
Willis Hawley was a Representative from Oregon.
He taught and administered schools and colleges, and then he entered politics.
Neither seem to be the bumbling, ignorant ogres that modem politicians make them out to be.
Maybe that’s just to distract us from what bumbling, ignorant ogres modern politicians are?
The Mullahs in Iran shout DEATH TO AMERICA.
The crowds shout along with them.
Why hate America so much?
I know that “A Horse with No Name” has dumb lyrics, written by Dewey Bunnell, but calling for their death is just ludicrous.
Maybe it’s because Dan Peek pioneered the current Christian pop music movement?
The mullahs hate Christians. Almost as much as they hate America.
Perhaps it’s because the band members were all sons of US Air Force staff.
Who knows, and who cares? The only thing dumber than the song are the assholes who want America dead for it.
Nobody knows the exact numbers on Satchel Paige.
Scorekeeping and statistics weren’t much of a priority with the Negro Leagues.
And Paige played in other leagues and pickup games in between.
They say he’d go out to the mound all alone on the field, telling the rest of the team to stay in the dugout.
He’d strike everyone out himself.
He struck out the batters, he struck out the coaches, he struck out the umpires.
He struck out the guy selling hot dogs.
He even struck out me while I wrote this story.
Or maybe it was Jackie Robinson.