If Women Controlled The World

My daughter sent me this. It's an e-mail that is going around the world to support breast cancer research.

I think it's hilarious. Thanks, Elle!












This woman is walking the World for Breast Cancer. Please pass her on so that she can reach her destination. Say a prayer for all those who are affected by this terrible disease. She's walking around the world - via e-mail!!

I Am Horny

I have a lump on my head. It is fairly large and lives on my forehead, about an inch from the hairline. I have no idea how long it has been there, sometime between birth and today, what trauma (if any) caused it, and whether or not it has grown since it first appeared.

You would think that I would know all of these things. You would think that I would have called it to the attention of a doctor somewhere along the line. But you would be wrong.

A doctor did notice it recently, and expressed concern. He thought it might be a tumor. He ordered x-rays, and sent me to a head and neck surgeon. There must be a lot of people having head and neck surgery because it took four months to get an appointment.

Today was D-Day. I had collected the original x-rays from the hospital for his edification and enjoyment, and crossed the Golden Gate Bridge to the wilds of beautiful Marin County to see the Wizard of Heads & Necks.

He entered talking. I am normally the one who, once started, cannot be stopped, the one who walks away and leaves my mouth running. I was totally outclassed by this guy, who had the ability to put together more words, faster, than anyone I have ever known except maybe tobacco auctioneers.

He might want to cut back on his espresso consumption or something.

He asked if it bothered me. Well, I don't look like a unicorn or anything (yet,) but still, it shouldn't be there. The movie, Alien, comes to mind, not anybody's best look.

He asked about relatives who have had cancer. I started to list them, but he lost interest and started a new topic.

I tried to think of what might actually enthrall him. Besides the sound of his own voice, I couldn't think of anything.

Apparently, it is bone, growing outward. The medical term is exostpsis, which looks as if it's missing a vowel or two. It is not menacing my brain at this time, but should be removed lest it change course and become aggressive.

Doctor Head & Neck gave me options. He could make incisions above and below it and drill the bone. I believe he said he would file it down. It sounded a lot like carpentry. There would be a scar. Was that a problem?

Well, yeah. It might look dashing, like a lady pirate, but I would prefer not to have a scar on my face. The other option, we'll call them A & B, would be more extensive and would require general anesthesia.

He would make an incision across the top of my head from ear to ear, pull the skin down, and do his woodworking thing on the bony knob, then pull the skin up and sew me together again.

Da da. Presto change-o. Mandrake the magician lives.



I remarked that Option B sounded a bit drastic. He smiled, but resisted the urge to lick his chops at the thought of all that cutting, drilling and sanding he would be licensed to do inside my head.

I said that it sounded a lot like a facelift, and that if I was going to go through all that, there ought to be some cosmetic benefit as well.

"Oh, there is," he said. ""You won't have a visible scar."

I was thinking of something a little more significant than that. Like looking 20 years younger. Getting rid of the bump on my forehead would just be collateral damage control.

He handed me a magnifying mirror and pointed out a horizontal wrinkle on my forehead. He seemed overjoyed that it was there because he could bury the scar in it. For some reason, he expected that its presence would elate me, too.

I asked if we could just watch it for a while and see if it keeps growing. He assured me that he was there to help.

We agreed to measure my bony protuberance again in three months.

If I start to look like Michelangelo's horned Moses, I will take that as a sign from God that it needs to be surgically removed. But until then, my anarchic hair provides pretty good camouflage.

Bubble Head

I have an unhealthy affinity for bubble wrap. I love to squeeze the bubbles until they pop. It reminds me of stomping kelp at the seashore, which I also love to do.

I am in heaven today. Flip needed a small amount for a package he was mailing.

He wondered if we had any in the house. Of course we didn't. I used it all.

"Why don't you go to the UPS Store and buy a roll?" I slyly suggested. I was practically quivering. He looked at me with that peculiar mix of pity and contempt normally reserved for drug addicts and falling-down drunks.

"It's near the back of the store, across from the desk," I trilled. "On your right, second shelf from the bottom. To the left."

I thought I might have betrayed too much, but I am nothing if not helpful.

He knew exactly what would happen. He understands about facilitators. He hesitated. But his package... he went to the store.

I couldn't believe my good fortune. It was impossible to do anything productive until he got back with the goods. I gave myself high fives to pass the time.

I have never owned a whole roll of the stuff. I usually just save it from Christmas presents and the occasional fragile object I buy that has to be carefully wrapped for its trip home.

He brought a 5 foot x 15 inch roll back to my lair, like a wolf regurgitating a kill for its babies. I immediately cut off a large piece for myself.

"I'll just do this line," I chirped.

He got that knowing look again. I hate it when he does that, but it's way too late to salvage any kind of pride.

"You're a real sickie," he said. "Maybe you could join Bubbles Anonymous."

He suggested that I get naked and wrap myself in it.

Nobody realizes the intrinsic creative possibilities in bubble wrap. I am a great musician practicing on my fabulous percussion instrument. I am Snap, Crackle and Pop all rolled into one. I am a perp with a semiautomatic. I am Thor, the God of Thunder, ripping across the night sky. I am once again a nine year old at my cousin's birthday party, popping all the balloons that festooned her house. (I couldn't sit down for a week, but it was worth it.)

Bubble wrap is my rosary. My mala. I am very devout.

Who needs firecrackers for Chinese New Year? I've got your firecrackers right here.

Pop pop pop pop POP goes the weasel.

Holy Shit

I wonder why somebody would pile dog poop on top of a parking meter.

After considerable speculation about how the dog got up there, or if, perhaps, the creature who gifted the world in this manner was actually a cross between a dog and a giraffe, or a dog and King Kong, I had to resign myself to the probability that the noxious mess was in fact placed there for our edification by one of my fellow humans.

What would make a person think that this was a good idea?

I knew within seconds of my glorious discovery that I must share it with you. I considered going home for my camera, but realized that everyone who reads my blog has the imagination to picture a steaming, semi-solidified and slightly crusty pile of poop on top of a parking meter.

We all know what parking meters look like. And we have all seen the personal effects of animals whose owners are too lazy to clean up after them. So just put the two together, and there is your image.

I hate to post really disgusting stuff on my blog, so the previous one of the old folks' conga line with untrimmed pubies galore is about as nasty as it will ever get here.

But I digress. Today is Sunday. The greedy parking meters do not need to be fed today. So if someone was protesting the fact that you get only 10 minutes for a quarter or, in some parts of the city, a mere 6 minutes, it would not make sense to do so on the one day of the week that parking is free.

Perhaps the reason for the protest is that the city requires pet owners to clean up after them. I can understand why they would not want to do this, but then, they should not have a dog. Fair is fair.

So I am left with the only other hypothesis that occurs to me: Some person or persons unknown decided that piling shit on a parking meter was the most delightful thing they could think of to do. Perhaps they flung some of it at each other in the spirit of fun, or perhaps they fed prunes to their hapless mutt and held it in the air over the meter until the inevitable occurred.

The more I contemplate what I saw, the more I question whether it was a canine byproduct at all.

There are some really sick people in the world.

Class Tells

Britney Spears has shaved her head. Perhaps she was jealous of all the posthumous attention Anna Nicole Smith has been getting, or perhaps she simply had a bad hair day and no stylists around.

She has tattoos on the back of her neck, and a new pair of red and pink lips on her wrist.

Her tattoo artist in Los Angeles was quoted as saying that she wanted something "dainty." How fitting.

A few days earlier, she checked into Eric Clapton's Crossroads Center, a rehab facility, in Antigua, but checked out the next day. Apparently, sobriety is not for her.

Remember the old Roach Motel commercial? "They check in, but they never check out." Who would have guessed that she is not a cockroach?

I know that she has children because she was observed changing a diaper on her table at a restaurant in L.A. several months ago, but they have not been much in evidence lately. Apparently, motherhood is not for her either.

I can work up a little compassion because she clearly lacks the intelligence of an analid worm and was probably raised without any kind of social grace, none of which is her fault.

But she has made an obscene amount of money hawking cotton candy sexuality, and could be doing a lot of good for those less fortunate. Instead, her personal life is a colossal train wreck.

The children she brought into the world do not effectively have a mother, and somebody needs to bitch slap her into shaping up and taking some responsibility for herself.

Sooner or later, we all have to do that.

Sex, Drugs and Rock & Roll

WARNING: This is scary stuff.

My Aunt Florence, who is 80-something, sent me this photo, which took place at a Senior Center in Arizona. (Aunt F lives in Florida. She is not in the picture.)

Apparently, somebody's grandson laced the brownies she was baking with pot. She never noticed and brought them to the meeting, where the paper plates were licked clean. Everyone agreed that they were the best brownies she had ever made.

According to the police report, those senior hotties then ripped off their Sans-a-Belt pants and housedresses and tore up the place. They kept their hats on, though, as befitting dignified ladies and gentlemen.

It's good to know that the Bunny Hop is not dead.

Lemon Tree Very Pretty

The sun came out today. It was disorienting as we hadn't seen it in weeks. We went to the bay to feed seagulls and pigeons (and a yellow Labrador who grabbed a hunk of bread out of Flip's hand.)

His owner dragged him away and smacked him, yelling "NO!" while we kept insisting that it was all right.

"It's not all right with ME," he barked. "Don't interfere with my dog."

I never have trouble interfering. It's what I do best. "He's just a puppy," I said.

He kept scolding his dog. His wife/girlfriend corrected me. "He's seven."

He really looked like a puppy. They probably starve him. Besides, if a dog is seven years old and untrained, it's not his fault. It's the owner's.

I would have liked to do a little dognapping.

Since that was impossible, we went over to the Community Gardens with cameras to see if anything was in bloom. I met a woman named Stefanie, who was sitting on a stone bench watching her pet chicken peck at the grass. The chicken was a Rhode Island Red. They were both blondes.

We were having a nice conversation about her native Holland in which she complimented me on pronouncing Scheveningen correctly. It's a lovely beach I visited long ago.

Another woman abruptly confronted Stefanie, snarling, "I don't want that chicken here."

She looked as if she would think nothing of scalding the chicken, live, over hot coals. And Stefanie, too. "The police are looking for it," she growled.

Stefanie picked up the chicken and cradled it in her arms. "For a chicken?"

Flip ambled along and I introduced him to Stefanie, who is a beautiful woman.

The other woman, Linda, had a walk on her that many truck drivers would envy. She accused Stefanie of stealing her lemon tree.

Flip said, "How do you steal a lemon tree?"

Linda ignored him. He said, "She didn't steal your tree." His loyalty is always heartwarming.

Stefanie told Linda that she was gardening in the plot assigned to HER. There is a 5 or 6 year waiting list for plots in the garden. Bloody duels have been fought over less, historically.

Linda said that the assignment was a mistake, and that it was really hers.

Stefanie said, "My husband cleared the entire plot."

"Not my fault," said Linda.

"He worked very hard," said Stefanie.

"Tough shit," said Linda. "You stole my lemon tree, thief."

"Was it a Meyer lemon?" I asked. I was ignored, too. Meyer lemons are the best.

As we tiptoed away, Linda was threatening to report the missing lemon tree to the police. I noticed that Stefanie never actually denied the accusation.

I hope she did take it. I hope it WAS a Meyer lemon tree, and that it provides her with a lifetime of delicious fruit.

And I hope that Linda gets eaten by a marauding band of mangy chickens.

I Have This Problem

Virgin Airlines tycoon Richard Branson is offering 25 million dollars to anyone who solves the problem of global warming.

The winner will have to think of a way to cleanse the atmosphere of one billion tons of carbon gases a year for 10 years. Over 200 gigatons of carbon have accumulated since the industrial revolution.

"Man created the problem and therefore man should solve the problem," Branson said. "Unless we can devise a way of removing CO2 (carbon dioxide) from the earth's atmosphere we will lose half of all species on earth, all the coral reefs, 100 million people will be displaced, farmlands will become deserts and rain forests wastelands."

Scientists predict that global average temperatures will rise between 1.8 and 4.0 degrees Celsius this century due to human activities like burning fossil fuels. This will put millions at risk from rising sea levels, floods, famines and storms.

Al Gore, whose film "An Inconvenient Truth" has helped to spread the message, claims that although something is drastically wrong, Armageddon is not inevitable.

"We are now facing a planetary emergency. The planet has a fever," he said. "This is an initiative to stimulate someone to do something that no one knows how to do. This is right at the cutting edge."

It doesn't seem right that nearly everyone in our society drives SUV's while small villages in Africa lack food, medicine, and other basic supplies. I am not implying that oversized vehicles are the only reason we are going down, but they do hasten the end significantly. Everyone will ultimately pay for our vanity unless we wise up NOW.

The distribution of the world's wealth and resources has become so lopsided that it's hard to imagine a solution. But we must, because the future affects us all. Our vast wealth, which has caused these dire circumstances, will not protect us in the end.

I want to believe that the collective conscience is stronger than the collective ego.

Fly Like An Eagle

Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi today announced that the Democrats will change the country's emblem from an eagle to a condom because it more accurately reflects the new government's political stance.

A condom allows for inflation, halts production, destroys the next generation, protects a bunch of pricks, and gives you a sense of security while you're actually being screwed.