Alternative Advice

OK….I’m into something new. Instead of early morning cable TV infomercials, it’s now advice columns. And this is a piece on Alternative Advice Columns. Now, whether that means it’s an alternative to advice columns, or just some alternative advice; I’ll let you figure that one out. Here’s a little gem, worthy of comment by one who spent 30 years as a Probation Officer, tellin’ people what to do, and cramming his advice down their throats.  And it was an actual letter:

Dear Fannie: I have been best friends with “Claire” since junior high school. She is nothing short of a knockout, with a sweet personality to match. We have always been very close, and I treasure our friendship.

The problem is, when we are out together, men are interested in Claire but feel she is unapproachable because she is so beautiful. Instead, they talk to me up to try to get their foot in the door with her. Quite frankly, I am fed up with men only talking to me because they know I am friends with Claire. Then, when she isn’t interested in them, I have to let them down. It’s exhausting!

I am successful, educated, smart and funny, and, I’m not bad looking either, but men are only interested in my hot friend. This has been been going on since high school, and I’m 35, for heaven’s sake. How do I break this cycle? Or, at least, tactfully tell these men that I am no the key to Claire’s heart?

Signed….Invisible

Well, here’s my alternative reply to this sad individual, and it’s not a bunch of happy horse-shit about self-esteem, which was the columnist’s answer.

Dear Invisible,

Girl…Didn’t your mama tell ya that a man ain’t nothing but a dog on two legs? Stop whining, and suck it up. No wonder your not seeing any of that “foot” in your “door” action. There’s nothing faster acting, than a whining woman to reverse a man’s blood flow downstairs. On what bathroom wall did you read that You were the center of the universe???

First of all, stop being such a dumb-shit. If you’re gonna go bar hoppin’ with the girls, make sure you hang around with ugly women. That’s what “Claire” does, and look at all the action she gets. Standing next to a dog will make ya look good in any man’s eye.

If that doesn’t work, and you insist on maintaining a relationship with Claire, talk her into doing a ‘threesome’. Most men will go for that (as long as the other ‘some’ isn’t a guy), Mercy Sex is better than no sex at all. If that don’t work, then it’s time to start hitting below the belt. When some horny guy starts talking to you about Claire’s beauty, say something like, “Yes, Claire does certainly look good; especially now that her Herpes is in remission”. Or, “You know, it’s a miracle how Claire’s shanker sores and vaginal warts cleared up all on their own; without the need for antibiotics…just disappeared.”

Invisible, don’t envy Claire. Hey she’s 35 and still not married. And if she is, well then she’s just a cheatin’ little tramp. A loser any way ya read it. It’s your turn to be the heart-breaker, and not just for Claire

Sincerely….Hansi

The Tea Party

I try and stay neutral on political stuff, but just have to comment on the Tea Party. It’s also a good way for me to tag up my blog with a subject that is bound to get a lot of Google hits and increase my readership. Hey there’s a lot of good shit in my brain, and I ‘m sure a lot of people want to hear about it.

To me, the Tea Party is just a bunch of scared old white men who can’t live with the fact that America has a Negro for President. The Republicans were quick to hire a Negro as their party’s chairman, but recently canned his  Oreo ass. So ya gotta now live with the fact that it’s the black man’s turn to run the country and turn everything to shit.

Now I’m a scared old white man too. But in 2008 it got pretty frickin’ scary cause of what an old white man did to the Country, and even scarier that an even older white man thought he had all the answers. Sarah Palin (better tag that one) was a good choice of running mate, cause she was hot; a bull-dog with lipstick, or was it pigs who wore lipstick? Anyway, she was kinda scary too. The thought of a pre-menopausal woman  being a heart beat away from the presidency, was too much. Any married guy over 50 knows what that would be like.

There are somethings I like about the Tea Party. But come on you guys; in order to be taken seriously, you gotta stop wearing silly hats and carrying your lawn chairs with ya everywhere ya go cause you’re so out of shape. I too want the government out of my wallet, and especially out of my bedroom. I’m fiscally conservative, but socially a liberal: the thought of some bureaucrat laying in bed with me and the wife is abhorant. I can barely stand her snoring all night, let alone having some stranger in the sack with us chiming in and monitoring the proceedings.

The Tea Partyers just gotta start making more sense. Although I revel in nonsense, you can’t make serious statements about health care issues by uttering stuff like” I don’t want the government messing with my Social Security and Medi Care”.   Hello…….Where do ya think those oh so sweet Social Security checks come from?

You guys also gotta stop taking things so seriously. I got a friend, who I love to death, but he’s just too serious about all this shit. I admit my liberal bent is a bunch of shit, but he’s hard-core, and thinks me, little more that a socialist, just waiting to re-distribute his wealth. I always come back with something like, “ How are ya gonna help the poor out of poverty if ya don’t start raising their welfare checks”.   He goes balistic on that one.

Oh yeah. They don’t have a corner on the Patriotic market either. I avoided did my military service just as “W” did, in the National Guard. I don’t belong to the ‘Big Fat Commie Socialist’ Democratic ‘America Haters’ party, just as You don’t belong to the Grand Old ‘Nazi’ Party. The only party I’m interested in now (besides the one going on in my mind), is one that will deal with my issues. If they had a Get Up Three Times A Night And PEE Party, I’d join that.

Lastly. Give up the Birther nonsense. Obama’s birthplace, Hawaii, is a matter of public record. And think about it. If it were really true, that he is not legally eligible to be President because of his birthplace,  logic would imply that you guys are a bunch of inept, incompetent ( and not doubt incontinent) pussies who can’t even enforce the bullshit ya believe in. Have him impeached or shut the phuck up.

I’ll take my leave and let you fume one.

Link Farms

Recently in the news, was a story about how Department Store retailer J C Penney employed people to create Link Farms in order to raise their page ranking on Google. A link farm is any group of web sites that all hyperlink to every other site in the group. Although some link farms can be created by hand, most are created through automated programs and services. Hey business is business, and that gave me an idea…watch-out!

I’m an avid organic gardener. I grow all my own leaf lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, green beans garlic, snow peas, chard, parsley, basil and special medicine. And being an avid blogger, who is growing on some people, the thought of a link farm to increase my readership was intriguing.

I can’t to a ‘farm’ like the Big Guys do, but maybe a “link garden” would be right for me. But that would tie up too much of my time, not to mention the fights I’d get into with The Wife over computer time. I get three hours in the morning, from 5 am till around 8 when she gets up, (that’s sharing in her opinion). She plays spider solitaire about 5 hours a day, when not gossiping with friends via email. She feels that’s fair, because all I’m doing is spewing forth filthy bathroom humor, embarrassing her in front of the whole world with my blog antics. She thinks it’s time we consider buying another computer. That could be costly, but, solve a lot of problems. You know what? And it’s a great idea.  I think I know what I’ll get her for her birthday…..a deck of  cards.

Got side-tracked there. In reality, I can’t even do a link garden. But, I could do a link potted plant [no jokes about pot plants please]. And getting to the point, not to mention tying in link farming;  I have a new blog!!! It’s just a seedling, but being a good gardener, I’ve been watering it, fertilizing it with plenty of steer manure and boner meal (yep here’s plenty of double entendres in there. If one entendre is good, doubling it is even better.) It’s not your garden variety blog, but a raised bed of nonsense verse, limericks, song lyrics (with special treatment) and generally bad poetry. And…it’s illustrated.

So check it out at your own risk. You don’t have to be over 18 years old to enter, but having the Mind of a 12 year old would help. Most of my inspiration has come from bathroom walls, but only those found in 5 Star Hotels. It’s called The Blithering Idiot and that was my attempt a linking.   Enjoy 🙂

Take me serious?

You must be delirious.

Take me delirious?

You’re much too serious.

Beg Don’t Blog

Maybe you have noticed that there is a shit-load of people standing on street corners, holding signs asking for money. To me, this can mean a few things: Times are getting really bad; Your neighborhood is going down the tubes; or Both.   But maybe….perhaps there is a new industry out there that could drag our economy out of the doldrums. My heart usually goes out to these folks, and I often give them a buck, cause I’d hate to be in their condition. [Yeah…You can call me a bleeding-heart liberal.]

However…There’s this woman, in her 40’s, not ugly, that I see every morning on the corner of the Von’s parking lot. Pitiful. But when I saw her inside Vons one day, in line for the Starbucks, talking on a cell phone, with pack of cigarettes in her shirt pocket ( and not that cheap Bugler shit); I started wondering. How can someone on the streets, afford a morning Latte, cell phone and tailor-made smokes.? Is begging so lucrative? Or is she just scamming us? [Now you can call me the new Chairman of the Republican National Committee.]

My feeling is, street corner begging is America’s new growth industry. When I was in my prime and fighting crime, we used to call it Pan Handling. The Californian Penal code calls it Solicitation Of Alms. To me its just plain begging. A profession that’s been around since the beginning of time. So why not get serious about it and organize. Start a Union. Have a Union Hall; Local 647c (an inside joke**). Keep stats, and map out the most lucrative corners in town. A Union Hall would be a good place for these folks to load up fresh pieces of cardboard and Sharpie pens. No more dumpster diving and petty thefts. They could have contests to see who comes up with the most creative and revenue generating signs. This “Homeless…Anything Will Help” bit has been way over done in my opinion.

Now “Homeless. Going Through Chemo” still works on me. I mean this person (a woman) was not only bald, but double screwed because not only was she homeless, but had cancer too [Sorry to my RNC friends; I’m still human]. But these folks gotta get creative with their signs; there’s a lot of competition out their in the Alms Market. One guy I saw had a little square on his sign that said” Place you add here”. That was a good one. If there was an Alms Union, they’d know which messages were registered, and keep the local markets from being saturated by the same ol’ shit. And, no more fights over who’s corner is who’s.

Seems to me, that there’s no real money in Blogging. [I’m not charging for this crap]. If you want some fast cash, you gotta start begging. What are we doing, sitting in front of a computer all day? We gotta get out there, nail down a corner, and start begging. The Union may insist you go through some training first. But, We have the advantage. We are all creative writers by nature,  have superior language skills, And Spell-check; surely we can drive the homeless competition into the ground with our wit, humor, and clever insights scrawled out on our cardboard signs.

If you were to pursue a career in the Alms Industry, What would you write on your sign?

**647c is the California Penal Code section for solicitation of alms; and a sub-section of section 647 which deals with “nuisance crimes” such as disorderly conduct, lewd conduct, public drunkenness and prostitution.

Twin Problems

After my first Dear Hansi letter, I’ve found advice columns to be a rich source of blog-worthy material. Here’s an actual letter to one columnist:

Her Bully Is Her Twin
Dear Fannie: I have an eighteen year old fraternal twin sister. We have the same friends, the same classes and even the same extracurriculars.
The problem is, she bullies me. If I have something she wants, she throws things at me. She pushes me out of my chair so she can sit in it. She constantly teases me, even when our friends are over. She says things like, “People only hang out with you because you’re my twin”, and “You should lose some weight.”
Everything I do, we do. Everything we do, she’s the boss. If I resist, she hits me. We have an older sister, but she favors my twin. My friends don’t want to get involved, or are oblivious to it. My parents do nothing. It’s obviously hard to avoid her, and I’m tired of sinking to her level. What can I do?
Twin Problems

Sad story, and being bullied is no fun. However, this plea holds the opportunity to stoop to new lows here at the H H blog, by ridiculing the handicapped. [Hey. They get all the good parking spaces; they should be able to take a joke]. So…. Let’s have some fun by just adding one word to the above, and see how it effects the whole tone of the letter. CONJOINED sounds good to me. Lets have a go at it.

Her Bully Is Her Conjoined Twin
Dear Fannie: I have an eighteen year old conjoined twin sister. We have the same friends, the same classes and even the same extracurriculars.
The problem is, she bullies me. If I have something she wants, she throws things at me. She pushes me out of my chair so she can sit in it. She constantly teases me, even when our friends are over. She says things like, “People only hang out with you because you’re my conjoined twin”, and “You should lose some weight.”
Everything I do, we do. Everything we do, she’s the boss. If I resist, she hits me. We have an older sister, but she favors my conjoined twin. My friends don’t want to get involved, or are oblivious to it. My parents do nothing. It’s obviously hard to avoid her, and I’m tired of sinking to her level. What can I do?
Conjoined Twin Problems

A new low? Who knows? Right now, movement in any direction is considered progress for me.

My Little Girl Is A Private Eye

Yep my 33 year old daughter is a private Eye…. A genuine Licensed Private Investigator in the State of California. My gawd am I proud of her, because when I was a kid , I grew up watching every Private Eye show there was.   From 77 Sunset Strip and Hawaiian Eye, to Magnum P I, Mannix and more. One of my favorite songs back then was (I wanna be a) Private Eye by the Olympics. The Eyes had it, cause if we weren’t watchin’ P I shows, then it had to be Westerns. And guess what? The Olympics even did a song about Western Movies. Nothing like staying with the latest rend while doin’ the “Hully Gully”. Turn your speakers on and listen while ya read the rest of this post.

Anyway, My little girl used to fight crime like her Daddy. But she found out that there was more money in Fighting FOR Crime, and bailed out of the probation racket. Now she’s working for private attorneys, helping them defend people who have been wrongly accused and in need of some justice. Apparently some of these folks can afford a lot of justice, cause she don’t work cheap.

Here’s a good one. How did she become interested in a probation career? Because Daddy took her to work one day on “Bring Your Daughter To Work Day”. Shouldn’t of ever done it. Part of my job at the time, was interviewing jail inmates who were to be sentenced in the afternoon. So one morning, I took daughter down to the holding cells in the basement of the Courts building, to show her what Daddy does all day. We get down there, through a long sterile hallway where manacled inmates in orange jumpsuits where shuffling around, turn the corner to the interview rooms (2” thick, small glass rooms which one conversed through a small screened opening).

Hello!! Locked inside one of them, and being segregated from the rest of the population was a five and a half foot tall wiry man in belly chains (hands cuffed to a chain around his waist that connects to the manacles on his feet), who commenced to go off on my daughter. This guy was literally foaming at the mouth and calling my sweet, innocent 13 year old a “fucking whore” while spitting at her and calling her every foul word you hoped she’d never hear. This guy was psychotic, and mad as hell (the angry type). Needless to say, that was a short interview and we got the hell outta there. I later asked her, “Well Pumpkin, what did you think of Daddies work?”

“Working for the other side” was kinda difficult for her at first, because when you’re in law enforcement you tend to get a warped view of people, thinking that they are all “Dirt-bags” or Crooks; Or just Dirt-bags and Crooks in waiting; waiting till you can catch them doing something wrong. Now they are “Clients”, who pay well.

Ironically, she got her start “sleuthing” from a cop, who got his hand caught in the evidence locker, due to a little cocaine habit he picked up. Here’s the kicker. Guess who did the probation report on the former narcotics officer turned defendant.? Hansi did. I shit you not. Back in 1984 I did a report on this guy, recommended probation, he cleaned up, became a private investigator, met my daughter through a colleague of hers, and hired her for some jobs. The rest is history.

I got to go out with her when she was serving subpoenas for a big double murder trial she was working on. She doesn’t do the “catch em cheating” type of P I work; only works for attorneys. That was fun, $50 bucks an hour, plus mileage, to drive around LA, looking for people who have long since vanished. Who says crime doesn’t pay. My little girl thinks crime pays exceptionally well, especially when you’re facing a trial for it.

Think I’ll listen to Western Movies by The Olympics. And dream up a blog post about all the great TV Westerns of the 50’s, like Maverick, Paladin, and Bonanza.

Sorry, you got to click on the U Tube link to hear this classic.

Another Dear Hansi Letter

Well my advice was so well received that folks are starting to write in and ask me for my professional opinion on a variety of subjects. Cheapskates, I’m not charging them a dime, but as John Arbuckle used to say, “You get what ya pay for”. Here’s the latest loser.

Dear Hansi,

A few nights ago I was at home having a few beers, when the wife started getting on my case about not doing anything around the house except leaving empty beer cans and potato chip packages everywhere. That really pissed me off , and I maybe pushed her around a little too much. She got pissed too, not so much for being pushed around, but because I drank all the beer in the house. She threatened to call the police, so I left the house, and went to my favorite bar to cool down. Now I only had two drinks, I swear, but on the way home I was pulled over by the cops. The cop smelled alcohol on my breath and made me get out of my car and do some sobriety tests. I suffer from an inner ear infection, and my balance isn’t very good, so the cop felt I was DUI and arrested me. Since then, I lost my job, due to being in jail for a few days, and my wife left me. Tell me please Hansi. Do you think I have an alcohol problem?

Sincerely

Despondent in Denver

Dear Despondent,

Hell no!! You don’t have no alcohol problem, you have a Law Enforcement problem!! Alcohol never arrested anybody; the Police do. What were you thinkin’, doing two shooters right before leaving the bar. Everybody knows the cops set up sobriety check-points just down the street waiting for fools like you to roll by at 2:00am. Next time you’re getting blasted at the bar, CALL A CAB! That’s a whole lot cheaper than the $1500 fine you’re gonna be payin’ for that DUI, not to mention all the fees that are gonna be tacked on. Woefully, that’s  gonna cut into your beer and cigarette money, and the Wife will now need to find a second job .

Don’t worry about the Wife, but remember:  You Never.. Drink… The… Last Beer!!! if you want a good relationship. She’ll be back; this is probably not the first time she’s walked out on your ass. Any way, if it wasn’t for booze, you guys wouldn’t be together or able to stand the sight of each other.  [The saying, “All the girls start looking better at closing time” goes both ways].  She’s not gonna hook up with some bottoming-out loser in recovery or AA.  your Little Woman’s  got herself a real man (You),  she just doesn’t know it yet.

What Hansi recommends is that cut it down to a six-pack a night and No More! Good luck in Alcohol School.  And say Hi to all my pals at the Probation Department.

Sincerely,

Hansi

,

Valentines Day part 2

OK…we’re on Valentines Day, and a real rip it is, cause it covers all the stuff I hate: going to stores and spending money. I covered all that in the first post, by way of getting a little side-tracked on Boxing Day.  So read it and you’ll find-out everything you wanted to know about Valentines Day.

This Valentines Day is first drilled into ya in Kindergarten. Come February 14th, mom sends you to school with a cheap little cards in an envelopes for every one of your class-mates; can’t leave anybody out! When I was 5, what the hell did I know? I went along with the program. It just got harder in the latter grades, parting with my allowance and giving Valentines cards to GUYS.  At around age 10, I had it pretty well figured out that Valentines Day had something to do with sex; just wasn’t to sure what sex was, but probably something pretty good. So you’d give extra-special Valentines cards to the girls, and just some generic crap to you buddies.

Later, they actually taught ya about the origins of Valentines Day in school. [But again, you couldn’t just give one card, it had to be one for every classmate]. It was originally Saint Valentines Day. And observed to honor some dead guy who was caught believing the wrong stuff. It wasn’t until Geoffrey Chaucer’s time, that Valentines Day became associated with romantic love. [old Geoff was sure spinning a lot of tails in those days]. And you know what. Old Hansi can be dipped in shit, if the Brits weren’t doing it again, and coming up with a new holiday. Not only did they have Boxing Day to wrap up all the junk they got on Xmas for use next year as re-gifts; but here they are figuring out a way to get laid more than once a year on their birthdays.

It’s all about sex and getting laid. And don’t say it’s not. Just forget the Wife on Feb 14^th, and guess what you’ll be doing without. Got a girl-friend? Well there’ll be no hanky-panky until she gets a dozen roses. And…delivered to the office so everyone can see. For not only are we guys competing for love, but the girls seem to have some kind of competition/auction going, to see who’s poontang draws the highest bidder.

Hey, I’m not just an old pervert. The Romans had it nailed before the Brits with Lupercalia. The terms just sounds sexy. Also sounds like a sex act, for which  you could do additional time, if convicted of a sex crime.. Lupercalia was flat-out, a fertility holiday; Feb. 13 – 15^th. Guess ya needed those extra 2 days to really get into it. And guess who presided over the festivities? Cupid, the god of desire and erotic love. He went around prodding everyone in the ass with an arrow in order to get them fornicating a little more quickly. Only had three days get in as much “fooling around” as you could before going back to work.

So there ya have it. The true meaning of Valentines Day: “Run out and just get laid. But before, a shop keeper must be paid.”

Well, I gotta run out and get a card and flowers. It’s late, and I’ll be lucky to find anything left. Hope you have a happy Valentines Day, and get lucky too. Here’s a poem:

Valentines Day comes but once a year.

Maybe more. if you’re a wee bit queer.

Run out, find a lass

It’s the day, to get some ass.

Don’t be particular, and have no fear,

Just look around, and grab anyone who’s near.

Valentines Day

Is there no end to this year long spend-a-thon, that we’re forced to endure? Now it’s something every month. I’m talking about Valentines Day, and how I gotta now run out and buy something. Hey. It’s not because I’m cheap. It’s just that I hate going to stores, and when I do go to a store, I wanna go right to the area where what I want is, get it, pay for it and get the hell out of their ASAP.

I just recovered from Christmas, and here February rolls around, and I gotta hit the stores again. The British got it right; they have Boxing Day. Now that’s a strange one. I always thought that Boxing Day was the day you neatly packed up all the worthless shit ya got the day before, on Christmas, and stored it away so you could give it back to all those folks who gave ya this crap, next Christmas.

That would really be cool, if that was what Boxing Day actually was, because people wouldn’t be running around for months earlier try to find that ‘just right’ gift for that ‘special person’. Nope, there’d be no more buying at all, unless of course you were just entering the Holiday, then you’d have to run out and buy something, but that would be more like an entry fee than a real gift. See, the joy of the season [as I see it] wouldn’t be about giving, it’d be about re-giving, or as it’s now known in the States as “re-gifting”. It would still be a season of giving, but just giving back. Soooo, instead of fighting the crowds at stores, and hassling that last minute gift shopping; you’d just go into your garage, basement, or storage unit (the least desirable of holiday choices, cause that would mean you’re paying for something monthly in anticipation for the big day, and wouldn’t be in the spirit of the season ,where no cash is to be exchanged, nor stores frequented. Kinda be like keeping Christ in Christmas),and pick out something you packed away the year before.

The season could become even more festive trying to remember who gave what to who the prior year. The stress of keeping all this straight in your head, would probably lead to drinking, for some, and therefore to a lot of domestic violence (wife beating), as fights could ensue over arguments of who gave what to who when, or whatever. But on the big day, everybody would feel joyous and happy. Not all warn-out and thrashed. Everyone would get a gift, or more correctly a re-gift, and sit around the Xmas tree and feign delight or shock at what they received. The only bummer would be for children. They wouldn’t be able too play with their re-gifts very long, and have be careful at that, for the next morning, on Boxing Day, you gotta pack it all up for next Xmas. Prolonged exposures to joy could be hazardous to your health.

Anyway, the truth of Boxing day according to Wikipedia [Boy… you can’t tell anything, to any organization which starts with Wiki anymore.]   Is that Boxing Day is a Bank Holiday. Nothing religious at all. Unless the Three Wise Men, declared the first Bank Holiday after giving all those expensive gifts to the baby Jesus on the first Christmas. Now that makes more sense. We shouldn’t have thrown the baby out with the bathwater after the Revolutionary War, and  kept Boxing Day. In the States it’d be more of a bankruptcy-type holiday, after everyone was just to “tapped out” to be worth a damn to go to work. A second day of Christmas….Wonder what the third is?

Oh yeah….In the UK, theres also the tradition of giving tradesmen a “Christmas Box” of money, for their good services during the year. That sounds like extortion, or the protection racket to me.   No Christmas Box Gov’nor? Tires slashed; major sewage problems, forget about trash pick-up. That’s the more secular version of the day, and not in keeping with it’s true meaning.

Well, I’ve been so busy problem solving, that I still haven’t  gotten around to Valentines Day yet. But I will. This is only a little foreplay before I delve into the true meaning of Valentines day.

To be continued…

Wrestling at the Olympic

Back in L A during the early 60’s, before everything became “groovy”, One could always count on Wrestling from the Olympic Auditorium being broadcast every Wednesday night on KTLA channel 5. Dick “Whoa Nellie” Lane was the host, and would narrate some of the best matches I’ve ever seen.

In those days, wrestling wasn’t fake like it is today. You had husky men like Freddie Blassie, Dick the Bruiser and Gorgeous George slammin’ each other around to everyones delight. These guys weren’t huge, steroid-crazed body builders like they have today. No, they were real men, each with his own style and story, like that sneaky Mr Moto or that evil Destroyer.

Me and my Buddy Harvey from Baldwin Hills ( kosher canyon then, the jungle now) would hop on the buss Wednesday nights and actually go see this stuff. With buss fare, we could only afford the 50 cent seats way in the back. We’d always sneak up closer once the matches began (kinda like Mr Moto did on his opponents). We saw tag-team matches, women wrestle, but the best by far, was when the Midgets came to town. [That’s right, Midgets.  Not Little People.  Although I think some dwarfs passed as midgets].  They were all over that ring, throwin’ each other around and making fantastic leaps off the ropes.

Back then they sold beer inside, and actually have a vendor walking around with cold ones yelling, “Beer Here….Beer Here”. Me and old Harv would always screw with him, cause when he wasn’t looking we would take turns yelling, “Beer Here”, and then act dumb when he turned around looking for the sale. We were naughty boys for sure.

I even met “Classy” Freddie Blassie”, [That’s right ‘you pencil-neck geek’.] one time when Harv and I were up in the balcony area. He was basically a nice guy… when not being interviewed by Dick Lane. Freddie ripped Dick’s glasses from his face one night, and stomped them on the floor, he was so adamant about the character of one of his Opponents. Everybody knew that was kinda fake. I met “Count” Billy Varga and a bunch of other guys. Mr Moto’s Son even went to Dorsey High, and was in some of my classes.

I never did go to Roller Derby at the Olympic; watched that on TV. Those Los Angeles Thunder-birds were something else…And Little Ralphie Valladares was Hell on wheels. They even raced on an inclined wooden tract, not just duct-tapped flat cement like the Derby Queens of today. Don’t get me wrong. With names like ‘Potty Mouth Patty’ and Jabba the Slut’, who doesn’t enjoy all that fish-net hose skating around ya, pounding the crap out of each other all evening? They just don’t go flying over the rails, like when Little Ralphie sent ya into orbit.

Great stuff. Real Rights of Passage. Do you have any tales of passage? Keep it clean.  But this will be a no holds barred, catch-as-catch-can event.

National Fool A Blogger Week

Rarely do I get so inspired that I crank one out on the spur of the moment. But today, I got my inspiration from British Blogger John McNally and his post on Spam.

For you non-bloggers, Spam is the same stuff you get in your e-mail account, from folks wanting to sell ya something or direct you to their site for dubious reasons; mainly to sell you something. We bloggers get Spam, not as e-mails, but as comments. This really pisses us bloggers off, cause WE WANT people to comment on our post. Makes us feel good, and, adds to those stats we follow so diligently: ‘Hey someone is actually reading this shit.’

A lot of times  spam is filtered out, just as your Yahoo or G mail account does. But sometimes it gets by, and it’s hard to tell. John gave a couple of instances, of where it was hard to detect if the reply was or was not Spam. They were vague, generic type comments, which only remotely, in the furthest stretch of ones metaphoric imagination, had anything to do with the original post. John’s conclusion was: Spammers are becoming evermore creative, and out-doing the systems available to screen them out.

My conclusion was not so conspiratorial, but rather: Blogging has become obsolete and Spam, the new mode of social networking. It’s clever, almost haiku in nature, and gives one food for thought: ‘Is this real or not?’ Kinda like reading my Blog.

Well, having earlier taken some ‘medication’ for thought. I felt it was time for a National Fool A Blogger Week. Congress is always passing some national day of this or that. Why not blogging? It’s the biggest growth industry among senior citizens.

So, all week, make-up as many vague, generic comments your room temperature I Q can muster, and post (reply) them far and wide. Then, instead of wondering if I am real or not, we’ll wonder if You are.  Be creative, but non-specific.

No Evil Oil

Damn you enlarged prostrate! Yep. I’m up again at 5:00 in the morning and after taking a leak, am once again watching cable TV Infomercials. This time, NO EVIL OIL. I made mention of that in a past post on Snake Oil. However, this time instead of a black, clerical collar wearing, preacher with corn-rows, this one featured a 300lb white boy with goatee and mullet. [Keep in mind that I’m watching this shit in Southern California, where we haven’t seen a mullet in these parts for years.]

Now this good ol’ preacher-boy was pitching No Evil Oil too. Kinda made my old liberal heart hemorrhage upon seeing how much progress we’ve made in Civil Rights, and how the snake oil industry has become fully integrated and enjoying racial harmony. So along with Bishop Jordan, we have the Reverend Billy Bob David ( love these hillbillies with three first names), pushing this stuff. Wonder if they have a central supplier for N E O? Maybe a warehouse were you could pick-up a gallon at wholesale?? Naw…it’s probably cranked out in some trailer park kitchen sink.

The Rev was healin’ people left and right on this infomercial. And being filled with the holy ghost, was even able to determine, without ever meeting her before, that the 80 year old woman in front of him suffered from both arthritis, And,  sore feet; the lord apparently told him.

People were testifyin’, gettin’ healed, filled with the holy ghost, and speakin’ in tongues (except when it came time to tell ya how to place an order.  That 800 number was pronounced quite clearly, and without southern drawl). If you were one of the first 512 people to call in for No Evil Oil, which has been prayed over on an alter for 17 days, a visionary Coat of Many Colors Prayer cloth would be thrown in.   [I don’t know what Billy-Bob has against round numbers, but all I could figure was that 512 was the amount he received on his monthly SSI check.]. The prayer cloth was know to ward off Witch Craft, so I was able to figure out what part of the South he came from. Too bad a failed Senate Candidate from Rhode Island didn’t have one of these.

I rushed to the phone, but I was number 513 and too late. Oh Well! Got me to thinkin’:

If there’s a market for No Evil Oil; there’s gotta be a market for, you guessed it already….Yes Evil Oil. The demographics are there.  My readership, by the very fact that they are reading this stuff, indicates probable demand.  So….I’m gonna market it on my web-site.  And…. theres not gonna be any fake 512 caller limit. Nope, the road to perdition is wide enough for everybody.

Everyone who buys my Yes Evil Oil will also get a prayer Kleenex to wipe off all the excess evil they gonna be enjoyin’.  Yes Evil Oil is not just for topical use only. With an 80 proof alcohol base, my Oil can be taken internally, so in case you need some instant evil, you just take a swig. Sorry, my Yes Evil Oil won’t be prayed over for 17 days, but it will be set on my special altar until your check clears. I’ll be praying for that.

Wouldn’t you like to put just a tad-bit more evil into your life? Yes Evil Oil will also come in a hair conditioner form, and, if ya really want to immerse yourself, a Bubble Bath.

America Day

I was reading a fellow blogger’s post on Australia Day a while back, and had to admit that I hadn’t a clue about this Holiday (not to be confused with term: vacation) that he was talking about. The closest I’d ever been to Australia was when the wife and I did a three week road-trip in New Zealand (both Islands!). I thought, “what’s the difference, it’s all the same down under there anyway.” Wrong! We were in a Wellington hostile, where I asked a fellow traveler if he was Australian, sounded like it to me. Well thems was fightin’ words, cause the guy was a Kiwi, Not An Aussie, and he was about to throw my ass on the old barbie.

This is an aside. I love the Australian phrase “throw a shrimp on the barbie”; made me think of my great idea for a Toy Story IV Sci-Fi sequel, that came to mind while fully medicated…..Here’s the plot: …Outer space crustaceans land in a little girls bedroom, check out the lay of the land, and immediately start copulating with the Barbie Dolls. The Ken dolls look on in helpless dismay, but do nothing to help the Barbies, who are being vigorously violated by extraterrestrial shrimp. Rather, the Kens take this time to come out of the closet, immediately go back in there, and start buggering each other. Chaos ensues, and all looks lost, until Big Brother steps in and destroys them all. It is later found out that he was the cause of the invasion and devastation that ensued, because he had a history of sneaking into Sister’s room and arranging all her Barbie and Ken dolls into poses,that made Mommies face turn red. I sent my screen play to Pixar and Disney, but haven’t heard anything yet.

So, Australia Day, per Wikipedia and observed on January 26th, commemorates the time when the first English First Fleet arrived at Sydney Cove to establish a penal colony. Boy those Brits sure knew how to deal with toxic waste in those days….thanks for the Puritans!! Well, if Australia can have it’s own day, I figure America can too. And we do, but it’s not called America Day, it’s called Super Bowl Sunday, or more commonly, “Super Sunday”. Everything in America is super, from the size of our fries to the Man of Steel…Superman, who stood for truth, justice, and (best of all) the American Way. Sunday is also known as “The Lords Day”. But “The Lord” loves America so much, that He gave up one of his days just for us (the US). You just know He likes American best, because all his representatives live here. Plus, He has mega-churches full of followers financing all His adventures. It’s not like Germany , where they’ll tax your ass to death for attending to His business.

The Super Bowl is the championship game between the two best football teams in the world. And it’s Real Football, not just a bunch of guys running all over the place kicking a round ball around. It’s American, where guys are picking up the ball and running with it until they suffer a concussion to the head, or throwing it down field for a spectacular end-zone catch. I must confess that while in New Zealand, I did find Rugby interesting. It’s a lot less violent. Probably because after each play, they all get together for a ‘group-hug’, and then start all over again. Little did I realize that the time I was there coincided with a big international rugby tournament. I watched the All Blacks clean house on some English team. In America, most of our football teams are all blacks too.

How does one properly observe Super Sunday? Not in some damn church!! Nope, it’s 12 full hours of sitting in front of the Television, slurping beer and eating junk-food. Can’t miss a moment of commentary, from the pre pre-games shows, to the post post-game shows. The actual game is a little over two hours long, and boils down to just another football game once started. But its the Half Time show that makes America stand tall. It doesn’t get more ‘All-American’ than when Bruce “the boss” Springsteen starts singin’, or Garth Brooks, and how about them Rolling Stones singing about giving me a tax shelter. Everybody remembers Janet Jackson ‘s famous “wardrobe failure” when her boob plopped out of the leather bra she was wearing. Almost gave me “heart” Failure.

Well it doesn’t get much better than that We’re not just throwing shrimp on that barbie, we’re doin’ quarter sections of beef. And its called Bar-B-Que. And it’s Super.

Quality Time

Now that’s a term ya don’t hear too much any more. It’s kind of a throw-back from the 80’s. That would be the time when all us Baby Boomers gave up our Hippie ways (stopped smoking Pot) and became Yuppies: totally selling out to uber-materialism and wealth accumulation (started growing Pot commercially). For our evil deeds, the gods rewarded us with two horrific stock market declines, and are busily taking away our pension funding.

What got me going on this, was a fellow blogger [I won’t mention who, but he’s on my Blogs I Follow Page…that’s a pretty clever trick to get all my followers linking to other’s Blogs and thereby increasing everyone’s traffic, isn’t it John?]. He did a post on Resolutions, as did everybody in the Blog-O-Spear and how he resolved to post 50 to 75 ‘quality’ comments a week on other blogs. What I think he meant was that he was actually gonna read those Blogs and reply intelligently to it’s content.

This is what triggered old Hansi into this whole head-trip about Quality Time….versus, of course, time of questionable, or little value, which suffers from shoddy workmanship. [A good example of this would be Me Writing this blog, and You Reading it] So, Q T is an 80’s term denoting time when you are fully present and actively involved, not tuned out dreaming up some new moronic, blog post. It usually involved time spent with your children. Because we all wanted to give them the best of everything, even time, so they’d have that advantage over the rest of the kids when entering pre-school, or [barf] Montessori.

Well. I used this term also. But being true to my inner Hansi nature, I used it as a by-word for marital bliss time. Come on…You probably did too! This time appreciated in its Quality, because there were only certain times when you could enjoy it. Like during that brief window of opportunity, between when the kids were sound asleep, and before You were sound asleep. You had to act fast, and slip it in, squeeze it in (you know what I mean) when you could, or wait till the next Friday night. [I sure hope my Son, Bad Deacon isn’t readying this. He’ll probably put himself up for adoption after finding this shit out].

Well, like Disco, the term Quality Time is gone now. Fading into obscurity along with ‘YUPPIE’, ‘DINK’ (double income no kids) and all things New Age. I hope I have provided you with a little Quality Time (don’t let your mind turn to filth). And that this post has brought back a lot of fond memories of when you actually used to have sex.

You now know what quality time means to me. What does it mean to you?

Dear Hansi

I got a letter in the mail the other day from someone who wanted advice about their 13 year old son. I guess they knew I was a Probation Officer and had a lot of experience with adolescents and relationship problems. They were correct on both counts, for not only did I supervise juveniles, and even work at a juvenile detention facility (jail for kids); but I had a domestic violence caseload as well. I was reluctant to answer. I’m retired now, and the only hallucinations I want to share are my own, NOT, yours. But I’ll share this one anyway.

Dear Hansi,
Our 13 year old son Billy has been acting strangely of late. He no longer plays with the other neighborhood boys, but stays in his room all day listening to weird music and reading dirty magazines. One day I opened his door, and his room smelled like a forest fire. His eyes were bloodshot and glassy, and he didn’t make any sense whatsoever.. We found a small baggie of some green, leafy material; which Billy insisted was an herbal seasoning a friend gave him to spice up his food: he sometimes eats us out of house and home.

Worse yet Hansi, Billy has his hands down his pants at all hours of the day. When we confront him, Billy says he’s just re-arranging his underwear. Why that causes him to get so out of breath is beyond me. We’ve even gotten reports from school that Billy has been found hastily re-arranging his underwear in both the Boys bathroom and Gym locker room.

Is there a cause for concern here? What shall we do??
Signed…Confused in California.

Here’s what I replied:

Dear Confusued,
Being a parent is no easy task these days. I really think you don’t have too much to worry about; Billy sounds like an All American Boy to me. That burning smell in his room was probably just incense. He is no doubt exploring eastern religions, and that dazed and confused look on his face was just the result of being suddenly awakened from some deep state of meditation. I think you would be less worried if you took some of his spice, and sprinkled it on your salad some evening.

Regarding his “underwear re-arranging”, why he just playing with his Weewee. And if God has granted him the gift of having one, well it’s his duty to figure out how it works; life doesn’t come with an instruction manual. Before you go rushing off registering him as a sex offender, I think some simple behavior modification techniques would help with the problems at school. Billy just isn’t aware of social boundaries. My advice is to duct-tape a cardboard sign to his waist which reads “Don’t play with your Weewee”. That way he’ll be reminded of what’s appropriate, and what’s not. Even his peers at school will gladly join in by reminding Billy not to play with his Weewee.

Hope that was of help. I think you have nothing to worry about. I’ll address Billy’s torturing of small animals and setting fires, in another post.
Sincerely,
Hansi

Well…If you have any problems you want old Hansi to help you with, just leave an anonymous comment and I’ll get to work on it. Be sure to leave your address, so I know where to send my reply.