August 12, 2013

  • What They Will Find When We Are Gone



     June 22, 2314.…an expedition of archeologist from the World Central Committee of China, discovered ancient ruins in the Pocono region of the province of Pennsylvania. The People’s Committee of Antiquities had sponsored several digs in both the Liberated Americas and also most recently in the Middle East, following the abatement of the radiation levels. The above photo was taken in a secluded resort once occupied centuries ago by Yankee imperialist masters. Note the elaborate décor and fixtures of their garnished life style.  In Wong Chan’s book, “The Rise And Fall Of The Capitalist Dog Empire,” he writes of such decadence as these porcelain ‘foot washers’ located in many of the indoor relief centers of the privileged and elite. Recovered records of that period indicate that these fixtures were once manufactured in Nanjing and Beijing by an indentured labor force and then delivered to the ignominious West. Found also were a number of bidet face washers.



    2314 6月22日,….一個小組從中國,被發現的古老廢墟的世界中央委員會的考古學家在賓夕法尼亞的省的地區。上古人民的委員會在兩被解放的美洲最近主辦了幾開掘並且在中東,跟隨輻射能級的減少。 上述照片在一種偏僻的手段被拍了一次被佔領的世紀前由美國人帝國主義者大師。注意他們的被裝飾的生活方式精心製作的décor和裝置。 在陳黃的書,他說:「大起大落的資本主義的狗帝國」,他寫的是這種墮落為這些瓷器’呎墊圈的設在許多室內救濟中心的特權和精英。  那期間恢復的紀錄表明這些裝置在南京和北京曾經被製造了由勞動力然後被提供了到可恥西部。也找到一定數量的淨身盆面孔洗衣機。

                                                                                                                                                    Dr. Charlie Chan


August 9, 2013

  • Baby Boomer Club….the pain of it all



        I am a Baby Boomer. I didn’t enlist to become one, nor was I sentenced to live my life as one. I was simply conceived by a randy sailor home from the Pacific following WW II and my mother was a waitress and a willing recipient of his randiness. As nature dictates, I arrived on the scene eight months and eleven days later with limited options. The year was 1947, President Harry Truman was in office and King George VI was the British monarch. On the music charts was Chi-Baba, Chi-Baba sung by Perry Como and Mam’selle sung by Frank Sinatra. Aliens had landed and were running amok in Roswell, New Mexico, much as they are today. The number one movies were Miracle on 34th Street and Life with father. Both were plagued with politically incorrect normality.

         My ignorant kids once told me that life doesn’t really begin until your 50. It’s a shame my body didn’t attend that series of lectures, as it’s currently in remission and my fat index exceeds my body’s warranty. I don’t think or feel very old. Fact is, I don’t really feel much of my body anymore until around midday and then it hits me like a sumo on meth and then I just take a nap. My doctor tells me that at my age, diet is everything, followed closely by exercise. He tells me to never eat anything that taste good or is served through a window. The dog’s Gravy Train and Milk Bones are starting to look good and I fear our relationship may soon suffer due to my diet. My exercise routine consist of walking to the mailbox, (and back), and sometimes over into my foreign neighbor’s backyard where I pick a few oranges from one of his trees. I know he sees me, but he’s afraid to say anything for fear I’m wading around in a dementia minefield looking for the Viet Cong. I stash my oranges in my garage like a three hundred pound chipmunk hording acorns. Wifey rations my fruit intake because of the sugar, but I know she’s eating buckets of fruit cocktail when I’m conveniently taking my nap. She can be cruel.

         Then there’s that portion of my brain that controls my memory. It’s about the size of a walnut now. Some days I don’t have any memory problems at all. Other days, I can’t find the “Lone Ranger” or “The Jack Benny Show” on the radio. Wifey just smiles, takes my hand, and gently asks me where the safety deposit box key is….again. Well, this is just a small insight into the Baby Boomer club house and I would like to write more, but I really need to take a potty break……uh oh!….never mind.



August 8, 2013

  • Me and my dog retired….I like it, he don’t



         When I woke up this morning, I slid out of bed like a slow lava flow and then zombied into the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and thought, “Jeez, I’m still here.” After my morning maintenance and gargle, I roamed into the kitchen and poured myself a cup of Wifey’s coffee. I asked her how I took my coffee and she said I liked it with a little cream, (when you get our age, you’ll understand). After I concocted my brew, I wandered out onto the patio and sat down in my favorite Chinese made chaise lounge. The Cardinals and mocking birds were flapping around the yard torpedoing my roses with poop, which made me regret ever running over the cat with our lawn mower. The morning sun was warm, and everything was calm and peaceful, and my neighbors had yet to turn on their deafening mariachi music.

        Wifey is the ‘Diet Gestapo’ of our house and forces me to eat like I’m in a fourth world country. She brought me my usual breakfast sandwich of scrambled egg white on dry toast. Then she went back inside to get my meds and some juice. As usual, I fed my sandwich to my faithful dog. My dog has lost a lot of weight. Back with my assorted meds and cranberry juice, Wifey starts to nag on me for always eating my egg sandwich too fast. This causes my dog to look up at me with conspiratorial disgust. Anyway, sugar-muffin gives me the weather forecast for the day and then announces the assorted projects, drudgeries, chores and challenges she has scheduled.

          I’m not sure how it works in nature, like the relationship between old wolves or maybe arthritic squirrels or any of the other mammals when they get old together, but it seems like when me and Wifey retired and put away our lunch pails for the last time, she kind of took charge! I didn’t notice it at first, but, after awhile I did notice that I was saying “okay“ and “yes dear” a lot and she was now critiquing me on a regular basis. She started patting me on the head a lot too, which I liked, and this disgusted the dog even more. 

         Chores done, bath taken and BenGay applied….we then relax for the day and have our dinner. My meals are now based primarily on three food groups; brown, green and pale. There are two categories of flavor; sticky and mushy.  No sweets….desserts are where you find sand dunes. The dog snorts and refuses to eat leftovers. Then we watch a couple of hours of brain sucking TV until Wifey’s head starts to bobble and then she kisses me goodnight, pats me on the head and heads off to bed with the dog meandering behind her. I watch some news and when I finally hear her snoring from three rooms away, I get up and head out to the garage where I keep my stash of Oreos. I get a glass of fat laden milk and then head into the den and my computer to catch the next bus to Xangaville. All and all, it’s a really good life being retired, with a wonderful woman and a skinny disgusted dog.

August 7, 2013

  • A&W Root Beer…..back in the day


         When I was very young, Mom always fixed certain things for each day of the week, ending with roast chicken on Sundays. Now, Thursdays was meatloaf night. Mom could work a pound of ground beef into four pounds of loaf by adding loads of onions, oatmeal for filler, a variety of left over meats from previous nights and finally an entire can of stewed tomatoes. It was usually on Thursday mornings, as Dad was walking out the door on his way to work, that he would announce that Mom had worked hard that week and needed a break. So, he would be taking all of us out to eat when he got home that evening. Mom enjoyed the break and me and my little brother would thank Dad repeatedly under our breath. Now understand, I relied on being well fed, but trying to hide Mom’s meatloaf under the mash potatoes never worked and the dog knew when it was meatloaf night cause he stayed in the garage.

         That evening, Dad would load the family up in the Pontiac and head to the A&W, the Valhalla of burgerdom and the purveyors of that wondrous elixir known as root beer. He would pull into the A&W on Steward Street and carefully slid his automobile into the first available spot. All the smells, bright lights and rock and roll music was like an epiphany to my little brain and tended to cause me to get euphoric, which I guess was like getting high back then for a 11 year. Then I saw her! The car hop heading down our way. My heart would thump like a puppy dog as the bleached blond goddess on roller skates rolled up to our window. Dad was always in charge of ordering for us and it usually meant a burger and small fry each for me and lil bro, a fish sandwich for Mom and two chili dogs and a large onion ring for him. Then, of course, four arctic frosted, solid glass mugs of their legendary root beer!

         This particular A&W was always busy on Thursday nights, as I assumed that was meatloaf night for a lot of folks. Well, for the next ten minutes, my brother and I crawled around in the back seat like a pair of starving hyena cubs as we watched tray after tray of wondrous delights roll pass our car. Finally….blondie rolled up to Dad’s side of the car, did a tight pirouette and then hooked a metal tray onto the car door window. I was agasp at her proficiency. Dad then handed out the grub and once we were all settled, he would finally pass around the crystal steins of the sassafras infused beverage. To me, there was nothing as unique or as satisfying as an A&W root beer. Understand, it would not be until years later when you could actually buy a bottle of it. Till then, here was the only source.

         Fed, refreshed, and satisfied, we finally headed home. But….sometimes, Dad would go all out and buy a glass gallon jug of root beer and take it home with us. This usually caused a state of contention between me and my brother once we got it in the fridge, but Dad would put the death grip on the screw top and it would have taken Superman or Grandma to loosen it. Anyhow, when I drive by the new A&W’s of today, it just ain’t the same. Prefab buildings serving steroid enhanced burgers, machine extruded fish squares and a facsimile of the legendary root beer, which is delivered each week and pumped into an underground storage tank. Car hops??  It’s call drive-thru.

    Anyway….I can close my eyes and still remember those wonderful Thursday nights and the joy and excitement of going to a very special place both loved and enjoyed by the entire family……as a family.



June 7, 2013

May 24, 2013

  • Old Farts Need Love Too….!




         After 66 years of living among the humanoids, I have surmised several absolutes about us all. Time can really be slow when we have to wait, too quick when we’re afraid, too long when we have to grieve, too short when we want to party, but….for those of us who love, time is truly an eternity. It only takes a small amount of hope to kindle love, but sometimes our hopes are as fragile as a young girl’s dreams. We spend our younger years waiting for love to come to us and then, as we age, we haphazardly seek it out. Meeting people in bars or on line who have bled out most of their love, with heart’s as neglected as a garden of dead flowers and shriveled hopes.

        Wifey and I have been blessed from day one with many treasures. First off, her tender attention to my every boo-boo and of course the excitement of my raging stallion lust! I  also do laundry. Most important, there has been a never ending plague of affection between us from the very beginning. Our first kiss occurred after we started repeating the same conversations over and over, and words became superfluous. I guess it was a natural reaction for shutting each other up. Fact was, she was an excellent kisser and hugger and fortunately, I was a magnificent one. I’m not saying we didn’t enjoy our discussions, not at all, cause I already knew I was half way in love with her when she let me do most of the talking!

         Well, many years have passed and she has allowed me to get away with a lot. In return, I have allowed her to remind me of that fact each and every day. I’m not going to get into any detail about the way I feel about her, except to say, if Wifey were to live fifty more years, I pray that I live the same…minus one day, cause I’ll never have the strength to live on, even one day without her. 




May 14, 2013

  • The Good….The Bad….and The Ugly of Marriage!!!



    No man should ever marry until he has studied the female anatomy and dissected at least one woman.

          A long marriage can be one of two things. A mutual punishment of cerebral anguish, or a heart thumping love affair. A long marriage starts out like a safari into the steaming jungles of lust and then evolves into the realm of, “Chicken again tonight?” All marriages revolve, twist, gyrate and splatter like a middle age pole dancer. One morning you’re in the bathroom shaving and your bride comes in and takes a dump…..that’s when you know the honeymoon’s over. Amazing when I think back to that time, that I was 20 years old before I found out that women farted just like men, but not as well.

         As the nuptial years slough by, you soon adjust, modify and cope with each other. You learn that neither one of you is perfect, as she will often explain to you while you shave. You accept the fact that her mom is a goddess and your own poor old mom is the witch that poisoned Snow White. Her brother is the smartest man ever to graduate high school at the age of 21 and once he gets his parole, he’s going to veterinarian school for wilderness animals like squirrels and moose. Having in-laws is a lot like catching gonorrhea after having great sex.

         The years pass and during their midlife debacle, he loses hair, gets a beer gut while her boobs become part of her waistline and her butt takes on new dimensions. At heart, they still feel attractive and the more their aging eyesight diminishes and the elastic holds out, the more they feel irresistible. Now they start to argue a lot. Angry words are spouted out like…..hate, miserable, useless, dickless, asshole, stupid, loser and chainsaw! No one is ever right, only wrong. They go to a marriage counselor, but in reality, most are as useless as a three legged turtle. They finally realize that to survive with each other they must admit when they’re wrong and they need to always compromise…..on everything! Of course this is a friggin fantasy, so they just get divorced and the guy loses his ass and she gets liposuction.

         Their evolutionary clocks are ticking, so they hurry and find their next ‘real’ soul mate…..usually during happy hour in some local bar. Regardless…..they remarry and attempt to avoid all the screw ups they had with their first marriage. In many cases, it works! Now, with a new mate, they journey into their senior years together. The years go by and it’s a mellower time now and their favorite topics are the grandkids and bowel movements. They may disagree from time to time, but considering all the medications they’re on by the time they reach 65, they seldom remember why they’re arguing. There is still a lot of hot sex, but it occurs during REM sleep in the middle of the night while they dream about reality show bimbos and hunks.

         So, if you get the urge to get married and you get a good spouse, then you’ll be happy. If you get a bad one, then you’ll become a philosopher. Anyway, most of you reading this will know I’m only being humorous. But, for those few who believe what I’m saying… well grasshoppers.





May 13, 2013

  • Is our species about done???





         Have you ever wondered why we’re even here?? The short answer is theological, but the long answer can be very complex. Some say we all descended from monkeys……where the monkeys came from is another mystery. Some believe the human circus started with a genetically challenged fish or a talking gecko lizard. Maybe it was just a simple one eyed jelly fish with a progressive mentality. Anyway, I don’t lose sleep over it, but what does keep me awake at night, is what went wrong? We are so convoluted, as a species, that we are often a hazard unto our own selves, much like a Republican rally.

         We need armed police to protect us from each other and huge armies to protect us from other civilizations who also need protecting from us! Humans and rats are the only mammals that kill their own kind without provocation. Through out history, our wars have filled cemeteries by the thousands and untold mass graves. We love movies with incredibly high kill ratios and our video games score us on our killing expertise. We are evidently preparing ourselves for one huge friggin shootout!!

         I don’t understand the human race anymore, just like I don’t understand how the voting works on American Idol. Racism, corporations, our government, and hotdog filler totally dumbfound me. It seems we stopped getting along with each other awhile back, so now we put up cameras, hook up security systems, erect fences and install extra locks. We buy guns and ass biting dogs. We keep stun guns and pepper spray at the ready as we walk around in public. The knock at the door after seven at night terrifies us! We are each others most feared enemy and bogyman! The days of the protective tribe are long gone now and even the days of my youth, when neighbors kept an eye on each other’s kids while watching out for strangers cruising the area. Now, we’re traumatized when our kids are ten minutes late from school and we quickly turn on the news as we reach for our phones. 

         What does all this mean? What’s it going to be like in fifty years? Will we live, work and educate our young in a bio dome that shields our home? Or.…will we simply finish what we have begun…..our annihilation as a species. Our planet’s turning into a compost heap of non degradable refuse and only a hippie would drink from a river or stream today. We’re preparing every day for the next war or conflict and the clock is ticking down to the next terrorist attack. We are the dinosaurs gazing up at the giant meteor, just before it hits earth. It seems like the human race is coming up to the finish line and on the other side of that finish line is a dark and nasty abyss filled with decaying lawyers and CEO‘s.

         I got stuck at the grocery store today with a dead car battery and two half gallons of ice cream and a large pack of chicken legs in the trunk. So, when I finally got my ass home, I decided to write a happy blog!!!!!!!!!!!!









May 8, 2013

  • What’s your pet name?



         Why do we have pet names for the ones we love? Another level of endearment? Easier to remember than their real name, (large families)? Maybe it’s a method to show love to some and to humiliate others. When we’re young, pet names was a way of life. It was a way of protecting ‘Snuffy’ your pet rabbit, cause no one ever eats a pet, once you name it. Until I was twelve, I thought my own pet name was ‘dumass’ until mom took it away from me and gave it to dad.

         The obsession that young men have with pet names is bewildering. Every woman in his social life has a pet name, like ‘Sweet Cheeks‘, ‘Sugar Lips’ or ‘Honey Rump’. Then, during his lifetime, he will go through half a dozen pet names for his own genitalia. During his 20‘s, his apparatus may be addressed each morning with….“Good morning Love Python. ” During his 40’s…..“Good morning Wonder Wand, ” and finally during his 60’s….“That’s alright Goober, you just keep hibernating.” 

         Pet names really stick to people too, and the most ridiculous are the most adhesive. Two guys I grew up with were called ‘Flipper’ (big feet) and ‘Snout‘, (big nose). These guys I’ve known for over 50 years, and I still address them by their ancient pet names, maybe cause I can no longer remember their real ones. One old friend, now incinerated, was called ‘Thud’, because he once drank too much of his dad’s Crown Royal and while we were paying cards in his attic, he passed out and banged his head on the attic floor with….yep, a thud.

         We give our children pet names as a means of bonding and as a blackmailing tool once they reach their teens. Woofy, Weezer, Acorn and Fluff Butt were the pet names I decreed on my prodigy and to this day, they cringe when I use them in front of their kids and spouses. I’ve got too many grandkids to hang a name on, (12), so I mostly call them either Larry, Curly, Moe or Hillary.  

         Now, my wife and I have had the same pet names for decades. But, when we first got married we tried out a number of possibilities. At first, she called me ‘Stallion’, but that soon morphed down to ‘Dumass’. At first, she was my ‘Tootles’, but that changed to ‘Yes Dear’ within the first year. Anyway, I have lovingly called her ‘Wifey’ and ‘Babes’ for many years now, and she has started calling me ‘Stallion’ once again…..seems she doesn’t want me to become depressed in my golden years.


                                                                                                                               Stallion Charlie 



March 21, 2013

  • My 24,114th day of life……and I feel like a Viking




         When you’re my age, the only thing older than you are half the Politician’s in Washington. Retired, no bills, and no one to make sexual demands of you any more and, no matter what you screw up, your age is always your excuse. Each morning, after I get out of the shower, I make my way into the kitchen to brew some coffee and drop a bagel in the toaster. All I’m wearing is my white haired polar bear suit. Walking around naked in my abode, while my coffee perks and my bagel toasts, is just part of my routine. While the appliances are preparing my breakfast, I go into the bedroom and get dressed…..shows over. The only time there was ever an issue, was when my grandson stopped by on his way to school and walked in on me and my morning ritual. Other than some retinal damage and a case of stuttering for the next two days, he was eventually okay.

         Wifey jumps all over me about things like this. In my heart, I know she’s tormented with lust demons after she sees me totally exposed like a plundering Viking wielding his mighty ax, but she just needs to take a cold shower or rub ice cubes under her arm pits. Anyway, I finally get dressed and with my ‘Grand Dad’ mug of coffee and a bagel with peanut butter, I sit back in my recliner and watch FOX news for the next hour, or until my blood pressure spikes. Then I get up, grab my monthly edition of ‘Birder’ magazine and I’m off to the porcelain dungeon for about 15 minutes. Relieved of that burden, I then go to my computer and check my emails, banking, Trixie’s House of Breast, my blog site, Netflix and finally I hammer out a few ideas for a blog. Then I take my morning medications, so I can go watch some more FOX news.

         Later, I eat a low calorie lunch of something tasteless, and then Wifey commandeers me to go with her to do some shopping! This is the part of the day that drains the very essence out of the few years still remaining to me, but shopping is the price I have to pay in order for Wifey to work out her erotic frustrations. Like all women, she never shops like a man shops. In the store, a man will ask where is it….then go get it….pay for it….then go to HOOTERS for a beer….twenty minutes, tops! But, Wifey acts like she’s on a crusade for the Holy Grail that was advertised at 20% off. She can walk into any store, and like a hungry wolverine, she can sniff out tasty bargains and delicious markdowns. Her and other’s of her species, go through the plus size racks like a clutch of raptors on a blood sent. Not a pretty sight, unless you‘ve had a few beers.

         Much later, we arrive back home and I immediately take a recuperative nap. Dinner that night will always be based on the amount of damage the credit cards went through that day. If it’s yesterday’s meatloaf and limas, that means she couldn’t find her size that day…..if it’s anything deep fried with mashed potatoes and gravy, then she maxed out the credit limit. Later, we will sit back and watch a good movie or anything that’s not a reality show. We will also enjoy a simple cocktail to finalize the day; she will have a Kahlúa and cream and I’ll have my usual two beers. Around ten, she’ll bid me nite-nite, and head to bed. I’ll get on the computer and check my emails, credit card account, my blogging site and finally Trixie’s House of Breast.

         I finally conclude day number 24,114 of my extensive life and I too head to bed. As I have done for decades, before falling asleep, I will lean over and kiss Wifey on the head and whisper “thank you.” She will then snort or grunt as she continues to dream of being ravished by Vikings with mighty axes.