THE COCK CROWS AT MIDNIGHT!

I stumbled across more proof today that the first victims of global extinctions brought on by global warming will, in all likelihood, be anything walking around with a single “X” chromosome. Bite that one, Dick Cheney, you homophobic hypocrite, you climate change denier, you war-mongering warthog, you pacemaker regulated poo-head. And while it is true that Mother Nature normally keeps a few extra “X’s in stock to allow for wastage, mostly in the form of frat boy binge drinkers and “Jackass” star want-a-bees, there seems to be a growing percentage of bone-heads (pun intended) determined to remove themselves from the gene pool entirely; idiots like Kann Veasna,, the young Cambodia drunken idiot who, after a night of drinking in Phnom Penh, stopped to relieve himself. And, being a drunken idiot, Kann decided that rather than just pee on a nearby fence he would pee through a hole in the fence, as if he was going to get points for neatness. But what the drunken idiot did not consider was that there might be something on the other side of the fence.
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AND there was something on the other side of the fence; a playful, exuberant but bored puppy dog. Now, from the puppy’s POV the trouser snake poking its head through his fence was an invitation to play. The game: a canine version of “whack the mole”, called “bite the snake”. It was a short lived game. And Kann did not win it. Luckily for Kann, neither did the puppy. Doctors were able to mend his lacerated “X” dispenser. Later, referring to Kann’s damaged “X-box”, one of the doctors explained,”It is undoubtedly sore now, but…it should still be useful to him”. And now you know why people in Cambodia eat dog; it’s a form of self-defense.
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Meanwhile, in the Catholic world, Lent has begun, a purposefully dreary season, made more bearable by being preceded by the practice of “Carnival”, a week long party designed to give you something to repent. In New Orleans this culminates on the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday, which is called “Madi Gras”, or Fat Tuesday. And this year, on the Thursday before lent, 10,000 women wearing clown costumes and carrying shears and scissors fanned out across Bonn and Cologne, Germany to celebrate “Weiberfastnacht”, or “Castration Thursday”. Civilization and liability insurance has reduced this practice to cutting off the neckties of innocent men. Of course, should the “old ways” ever come back into vogue the German women want to be still in practice.
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The current delicate state of the male ego was illustrated in another German town, substantiating English columnist Katherine Whitehorn’s observation that “Outside every thin girl is a fat man, trying to get in”. A 50 year old, 282 pound man in Hildesheim finally won an argument with his 140 pound wife by sitting on her chest for “at least two minutes” , breaking her ribs in 18 places and suffocating her to death. As the court determined his intention was not homicide but merely to win an argument the court gave him five years. I’ll bet they would have given him more time but they probably couldn’t afford to keep feeding him. And I would guess that Ms. Whitehorn would describe hubbies’ debating style as, “I am firm. You are obstinate. He is a pig-headed fool.”
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But it was last April, just after the official completion of the London Marathon, when a very disturbed 35 year old Polish man entered the Zizzi Restaurant at 74-75 The Strand, just up the road from the Charring Cross tube station, and made a real dick out of himself in public. As a number of bloggers have pointed out, “Zizzi” is French slang for “penis”. What a shame that Zizzi is an upscale Italian restaurant chain. Anyway, at about 9PM the young blade in question went to the lower dining level of the 200 seat restaurant and tried to enter the kitchen. The staff stopped the stiff and he became engorged with anger. Then the prick managed to get his hands on a large pizza knife and, while the horrified diners watched in horror, dick-head jumped onto a table, dropped his pants, and in full view of everyone, whacked off his own penis. Now, nobody likes to see a thing like that while they are trying to finish their Ziti, and the scene that followed was worse. According to a witness, “Everyone was screaming and running …I couldn’t believe it….There was blood everywhere.” The Metropolitan Police shortly arrived and used pepper spray to subdue the “…not a well boy.” How gauche; who uses pepper on their Polish sausage? The cops picked the prick off the floor, packed it in ice and transported it, along with its owner, to St. Thomas’s Hospital, where doctors struggled to bring about the first such rapprochement in English history.
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The best place in the world to have your penis removed unexpectedly appears to be Thailand, since the oppressed women there are said to be the world’s most castrating females, and give the surgeons lots of practice. But as far back as 2005 an Anchorage, Alaskan man had his dismembered member remembered. It seems this 44 year old genius had spent the afternoon in a heated argument with his girlfriend, 35 year old Kim Tran, oddly enough an emigrant from Thailand. Eventually Kim suggested they drop the argument part and concentrate on the heat. The genius agreed. He even agreed to being tied up, proof that some men do indeed think with their dicks. It is not clear when the alarm bells when off in his head, or which head they went off in, but presumable whichever one it was it was sometime shortly before Ms. Tran produced a large knife, whacked off his “John Thomas” and flushed it down the toilet. The reasonable Ms. Tran then drove her ex to a hospital and returned home. And that was where the cops found her, cleaning up the mess. Boys, this girl is going to make some lucky man a wonderful housekeeper, someday.
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They had to disassemble the toilet to retrieve the missing item, but doctors were still able to reattach it. And for some reason this bothers me the most about this story. I guess I am suffering flash backs to my mother warning me, “Don’t touch that. You don’t know where it’s been!” Ms. Tran was charged with assault, domestic violence, and thanks to some jokester at the Anchorage P.D., tampering with evidence. Meanwhile, back in London, the doctors at St. Thomas were forced to admit failure. The graft didn’t take and the sad Polish man had to be re-castrated. On the positive side, after spending all day Monday on a “clean-up operation”, Zizzi’s re-opened Monday evening, as usual, and the management reassured the press that the victim “no connection of any kind with their restaurant.”
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Well, maybe not before, but he sure does now.

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DOUBLE TROUBLE BUBBLE BOY!

I expected it, didn’t you? Instead of "Hanging Chads", this time we got the instantly infamous “Double Bubbles" on the 2008 L.A. County primary ballot. Independent voters were required to ask for a Democratic ballot, and then required to check a little BUBBLE at the top of that ballot to confirm they wanted to vote in the Democratic primary. What is this, government by Larry David?

*
George; The Bubble Boy was trying to kill me. Susan, tell him.

Susan; It’s a long story.

Donald: Hey, Seinfeld, thanks for

showing up. You know your

little friend here tried to kill

me.

George; Oh, you lying little snot. And

he’s a cheater. Aren’t ya’, you

little twerp?

Donald; Moors.

George; Moops!

Man #1; There’s the guy that tried to kill the Bubble Boy. Get him!
*
If you have ever been in California for an election, and I covered politics there for thirty years, you could sense it coming. It was stupid, redundant to the point of absurdity and typical “LA bureaucrat think”. Republicans and Democrats from almost anywhere else in the nation would never have designed a ballot this way, following the theory that if the voters asked for a Democratic ballot they must want to vote Democratic, and probably did not want their hand held while crossing the street, either. But the LA tradition of protecting voters from themselves is hard to shake, in budget matters as well as elections. And when the first complaints came through some genius activists from out of town went to Rocky Delgadillio, the city attorney, for help, which was like asking Wiley Coyote for help in catching the Road Runner. The obvious is always too simple for him.
*
California voters get a ton of non-partisan info before every election, carefully edited and informative, as the County Registrar, Dean Logan, explained to the out of town press corps. “The manner in which cross over voting was presented in Los Angeles County was no different than that of the last three statewide primary elections (2002, 2004 and 2006). The voter instructions provided in the sample ballot booklets, which were mailed to all voters in the County, highlighted the steps to be taken by nonpartisan voters when voting a cross over ballot. Likewise, poll worker training materials and the actual vote recorder page instructions were consistent with past practice.” Is it a fool proof method? Of course not; fools are much more inventive than you can possibly imagine. That’s what makes them so prolific. But at some point people who wish to take part in the democratic (small d) process have to take responsibility for themselves, to actually read the ballot in their hands, otherwise the jig is up and Vlad “The Polonium inhaler” Putin is the template for the 21st century man.
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Besides, when 20 people in Chicago were convinced that their ballots were being marked with invisible ink, what hope is there for democracy in this world? We should just name Larry David dictator and everybody go home. But there is a more positive item here, buried in the election results and not mentioned by any of the pundits, except for me.
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In the California Democratic primary, John Edwards got 163,000 votes, which means he would have come in third in the Republican primary! And anytime a dropped out Democrat can come in third in the Republican primary, it does not bode well for the Repubs, which means it bodes very well for the entire nation!
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Oh, and Ralph “The Mouth” Nader got just under 2,000 votes. What a bunch of Moops.

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A Phenomenal Woman

I can clearly see that Ms. Kumari Fulbright is a striking creature, a 5’ 4” tall, 110 pound Midwest born, Texas trained beauty queen with a bachelor’s degree in psychology from the University of Michigan; currently in her second year at the University of Arizona Law School, and serving on the editorial board of the school’s Journal of International and Comparative Law. She was in training for a clerkship with a Federal Judge, and she also looks pretty good in a bikini. As the poem put it; “I walk into a room, just as cool as you please. And to a man the fellows stand or fall down on their knees. They swarm around me, a hive of honey bees. It’s the flash in my eyes and the flash of my teeth, the swing of my waist and the joy in my feet. I’m a woman. Phenomenally, Phenomenal woman, that’s me.” But poised on the brink of a life of ambition and success, seemingly overnight, Kumari has become media pulp and pabulum. The former beauty queen has been charged with the kidnapping and torture of her ex-boyfriend. The headline appeals to the gawker in all of us, the Paul Harvey devotee who derives comfort from life with a parable attached. Except that parables are always an invention. And in this case perhaps the most favorable invention was offered up by Kumari’s lawyer (who you would hope would proffer such a thing) when he suggested that, “If anything, she's guilty of making poor choices in men." And yes, that is usually a crime, and rightly so. Allow me to explain why.
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Kumari is Hindustani for “virgin”, and in 2000, when she graduated from The Colony High School, north of Dallas, Texas, she was a varsity cheerleader, a member of the student government, on the honor roll; and Kumari may have still been a virgin but once you are out of high school that doesn’t seem quite so important anymore. While attending Michigan, Kumari entered the Miss Michigan pageant and did rather well, although she didn’t win. But it was also in Ann Arbor that Kumari met Robert Ergonis. They began dating. And shortly after she graduated in December of 2004, she moved in with him in suburban Detroit. Her mother, Valarie, confessed to being worried because Robert was 19 years older than Kumari, and had been married once before, but says she consoled herself that he was a good man – proving once again that what your don’t know can hurt you.
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In fact the forty-something Robert already had an extensive if not always successful criminal career when they met, with convictions for marijuana trafficking, breaking into vending machines and carrying a concealed weapon and indictments in several states for theft, fraud, drug paraphernalia, and possession, as well as a long series of arrest warrants for “failure to appear”. At one point Kumari had even been threatened with a gun by Robert’s ex-wife. And it was with Robert that in mid-2005 Kumari moved to Tucson, Arizona, and into an apartment in the 1200 block of East Knox Drive. Why Tucson? Well, if I were suspicious I might point out that it is a college town, and that Robert had met Kumari while she was in college, and that college towns are prime territory for drug dealers, filled as they are with naive young recreational drug users – and Robert already had some “ties’ with the town. But that would just be suppositious of me.
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Besides, this is Kumari’s story, and shortly after arriving in Tucson Kumari began to enter beauty contests, being named in short order Miss Hawaiian Tropic, Miss Pima County in 2005 and Miss Desert Sun in 2006. Such beauty contests often include scholarships in their prize packages for competitors. For her talent Kumari recited Maya Angeleou’s poem, “Phenomenal Woman”; “Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I’m not cute or built to suit a model’s fashion size. But when I start to tell them, they think I’m telling lies. I say it’s the reach of my arms, the span of my hips, the curl of my lips. I’m a woman. Phenomenally, phenomenal woman; that’s me.” And she posed or a "Guns and Girls" calander.
*
In the fall of 2006 Kumari enrolled in the University of Arizona Law School, and like many other scholarship students worked at the UA bookstore to make ends meet. She also helped with the Task Force for Campus Child Care. This girl was on an ambitious track, and she began to realize that Robert had different ambitions than hers. They broke up and he moved out in the spring of 2007. But by the summer she had a new boyfriend, named Conway. He was closer to her age of 25, but like Robert, he also had a history of drug use and violence. Attracting boys never seems to have been a problem for Kumari. But this creep was defiantly a step down.
*
Kumari noticed that some of her jewelry was missing and although she did not report this to the police, she did break up with the creep. And she mentioned the offense to her old boyfriend, Robert. Perhaps they made a plan together, and perhaps he decided to act on his own. But whoever planned whatever, on December 8th, 2007, Kumari invited the creep over for a talk. Then she announced she had to take a shower. And as soon as Kumari had gone into the bathroom two men burst into the apartment. One of them was Robert Ergonis. They roughed up the creep. They took away his gun. They accused him of stealing Kumari’s jewelry – which he had, and which he admitted he had pawned. And then they dragged the creep out to an SUV, and drove him to the home of 40 year old Larry Hammond. There the creep was threatened, robbed of his wallet, about $600, a briefcase and his cell phone. Then he was driven back to Kumari’s apartment. There Kumari held a gun on him while he was duct taped to a chair. After Robert and his co-conspirator left, the creep broke free from his bonds and began to struggle with Kumari over the gun. She bit and scratched him. The gun went off. And eventually he managed to escape. The neighbors deluged 911 with calls.
*
When the cops arrived Kumari wouldn’t answer her front door. But she appeared at a rear window, shouting that the creep had robbed her and had shot at her. The cops eventually had to drag her out the window of her apartment. She was charged with assault and kidnapping. The cops quickly also arrested Larry Hammond, but Robert Ergonis was nowhere to be found. The police suspect he has returned to his native Columbia. And Kumari has been left holding the bag as the "ring leader". Although a small amount of marijuana was found in her apartment, she tested negative for any drugs or alcohol. And that is the most disturbing thing about the entire case; she got involved in all of this odd behavior without the excuse of any intoxicating drugs. Instead he lawyer has fallen on that other excuse; “If anything she’s guilty of making poor choices in men.”
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And for that offence the lovely Kumari Fulbright will likely spend no small amount of time in jail. “Men themselves have wondered what they see in me. They try so much but they can’t touch my inner mystery. When I try to show them they say they still can’t see. I saw it’s the arch of my back, the sun of my smile, the ride of my breasts, the grace of my style. I’m a woman. Phenomenally, phenomenal woman, that’s me.”

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DOCTOR IDIOT, MEET PATIENT IDIOT

I see this story as proof that even idiots can graduate medical school, specifically Dr. Adam Hansen, who was, until last December, the chief resident of general surgery at the Mayo Clinic in Phoenix, Arizona. It seems that Doctor Idiot was performing gall bladder surgery on 37 year old Sean Dubowik, and as Doctor Idiot was about to insert a catheter he couldn’t help but notice that Sean had a rather bold tattoo on his penis; the words “Hot Rod”. The doctor was so entertained by this unusual physical adornment that he whipped out his cell phone – which was, presumably, sterilized – and snapped a quick photo. Post-op, in the locker room, Doc Hansen showed this photo to several of his colleges, presumably for their amusement and edification. It’s the same reason doctors keep X-rays of various objects found stuck in rectums and virginals. The only difference is that an X-ray of a bottle of Jack Daniels floating in a ‘pubic symphysis’ has no identifying details on it other than the bottler’s label, whereas there are so few tattooed penises in this world that even a low quality cell phone image of one of them could easily be traced back to its owner, and that is a clear violation of HIPPA
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One of the primary purposes of the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 2004 is to make it an actual federal offense for anybody to release any information about any patient without their written consent. The Mayo Clinic boasts they have over 100 policies protecting a patient’s privacy. And according to HIPPA consent for the release of information to non-staff (i.e., the public) must be hand written, printed in block letters, and explicitly list the information to be released, and authorizing the spokesperson and/or physician by name, and any partners in their medical practice. These restrictions cover doctors, nurses, pharmacists, technicians, the clerk who prepares your bill and the accountant from your insurance company who rejects payment, as well as all of the office staff for those folks and all their assistants, the hospital housekeepers, cooks, crooks and bottle washers. Should you get caught violating a HIPPA privacy restriction you can find yourself talking to a Federal Prosecutor. And the Mayo Clinic claims they spend “… millions of dollars each year to comply with and exceed government requirements”.
*
All of which made it a big deal when one of Doctor Idiot’s colleges dropped a dime on him and called The Arizona Republic newspaper and told them about the impromptu photo op. (Do you think it could have been a scrub nurse, or maybe a housekeeper?) And when the paper called the hospital to confirm the tip, the administration had a little talk with Doctor Idiot. And Doctor Idiot then called his tattooed patient, Mr. Dubowik, who shall henceforth be known as Patient Idiot.
*
The term “idiot” as used here is not intended as a derogative definition but, like the term “genius”, as an adjective to describe a certain level of achievement. One man or woman can, at various times in their lives be either one or both. The first human to apply paint on purpose to a cave wall at Lascaux, France, 16,000 years ago, was a genius. And probably the very next day the very same genius probably tried use his new invention as a food additive, which may be why his or her name has been lost to history.
*
Sean Dubowik is the owner and operator of the Centerfolds Cabaret and Sports Fever Bar at 2031 West Peoria Avenue in Phoenix. It is described as a “topless bar”, or a strip club, where for a $5.00 cover charge and an over priced beer you can enjoy nude and semi nude female dancers on stage, on your tabletop or “in private” (extras are always extra). The club also features a “full kitchen”, but last summer the board of health issued them 12 critical violations, so it is probably safe to assume nobody goes there for the fine cuisine. Sean says he acquired his tattooed penis to win a $1,000 bet, and because at the time he was drunk as hell. And that anecdote, plus his choice of business, probably tells you just about all you need to know about The Patient Idiot.
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When Doctor Idiot called Patient Idiot and confessed about the photo shoot I cannot believe that Patient Idiot was surprised. You have a tattoo on your tummy to draw attention to your abs. You get a heart imprinted on your chest to draw the eye to your tits. And a tattoo on your penis is almost self explanatory. So Patient Idiot might have been embarrassed but he could not have been surprised. And yet he claims to have felt “betrayed, violated and disgusted.” It sounds to me as if someone is laying the foundation for a lawsuit. But really, is a jury going to believe that a man who makes his living paying naked women to hitch their heels behind their ears for the entertainment of strangers, would be embarrassed by a grainy photo of his own flaccid penis? I don’t think so. But I do smell a mid five figure out of court settlement coming from the Doctor Idiot’s malpractice insurance company.
*
There will be ramifications, so to speak. Doctor Idiot is no longer working at the Mayo Clinic, but it is not clear if he was fired, suspended or decided to go into photography. As Chic Older, from the Arizona Medical Association, put it, “HIPPA is not even the point. Many ethical boundaries were crossed. He just made a stupid error in judgment.” And the truth is that no one in Arizona has ever been charged with violating patient privacy under the HIPPA laws, and besides, such a “crime” would be a mere misdemeanor, a medical traffic ticket .
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In other words, Doctor Idiots do this kind of stupid thing a lot more often than the public is aware of. And the only reason this one made the papers is because of the presence of a tattooed penis. Which brings us back to the Patient Idiot…He had a tattoo needle used on his penis! What an idiot!

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SIMPLE SIMON MEETS LARRY HART

I am the proud father of a six month old kitten named Simon. Okay, I’m not his real daddy, and I didn’t name him, but I am the human (along with my wife) responsible for feeding and caring for the small brain and great big eyes and constant energy that is our Simon. I take this responsibility seriously. It was I who taught Simon the invaluable lesson about open flames when both of his eyebrows were singed off (they grew back enormously long and oddly shaped). But thanks to my inattention Simon now knows to give the fireplace a wide berth. My wife spotted Simon chewing on an audio cassette of Stephen King’s “Dark Tower”, abandoned years ago on a dusty bookshelf, and pulled two feet of audio tape out of his little gullet. But the next morning it was I who pulled another 12 feet of poop covered tape out of his ass. Simon now knows to insist we examine every aspect of our lives in terms of what Simon might eat, poke, scratch, chew, shed on or chase. And part of that responsibility is teaching Simon that he has a name.
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Years ago I worked with Harry Anderson, who was then staring in the TV show “Night Court”. Harry was in my living room every Thursday night, so of course I knew who he was. Still, when I first met him, Harry shook my hand and introduced himself. It was typical of Harry, who was a gentle, shy and polite man. But it made me think; having a name is a little odd, and it stems not from the recognition of “self”, but the recognition of “others”. You don’t require a name. It is others who don’t know who you are, and they require you have a label. And it is not until you realize this “other” factor that you achieve the “age of reason”.
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Which raised the question; how do you teach a “dumb animal” that he has a name? Do they come when you call them? That may simply mean they associate the sound that we call a “name” with food or a reward. A name is a much more complicated concept than that. I chose the rhyme/song approach to teach that concept. Whenever I pick up Simon for a bonding moment, as I pet him, I repeat the nursery rhyme, “Simple Simon”. We all know it but did you ever hear all of the verses? The details vary, as they do with any oral tradition (that is why writing was invented), but basically this is how it goes;

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Simple Simon met a pie man going to the fair.

Said Simple Simon to the pie man, “Let me taste your ware”.

Said the pie man to Simple Simon, “Let me see your penny.”

Said Simple Simon, to the pie man, “Sir, I have not any.”

*

Simple Simon went a-fishing, for to catch a whale.

All the water he had got was in his mother’s pail.

Simple Simon went to look, if plums grew on a thistle;

he pricked his fingers very much, which made poor Simon whistle.
*
He went to catch a dickey bird,

and thought he could not fail,

because be had a little salt to put upon its tail.

He went for water with a sieve,

but soon it all fell through,

and now poor Simple Simon bids you all “Adieu”.
*
Obviously the first stanza records the joint invention of capitalism and fast food, some time in the early middle ages, and a dickey bird is any small bird. But on a more fundamental level the poem records the creation of a Mother Goose stock character, the buffoon “Simple Simon”, who would eventually (1930) be the lead character in the Rogers & Hart musical, “Simon Says”, which produced the melancholy ballad, “Ten Cents A Dance”, containing a typical Lorenz "Larry" Hart internal rhyme; “Fighters and sailors and bowlegged tailors can pay for their ticket and rent me. Butchers and barbers and rats from the harbors are sweethearts my good luck has sent me…Sometimes I think I’ve found my hero, but it’s a queer romance. All you need is a ticket. Come on, big boy, ten cents a dance.”
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And it occurs to me that Larry Hart, that diminutive and tragically flawed genius, could have written the original “Simple Simon” had he lived in 12th century Europe, rather than 20th century New York. Of course, when Larry was first presented with the idea of a musical based upon the American West, he complained, “I can’t write about cows.” And that is why it was Rogers and Hammerstein who wrote “Oklahoma”, and not Rogers and Hart. But, perhaps Larry would have chosen a different melue for Simon; rather than a story about a baker and an idiot, perhaps for the last 700 years children would have memorized the story of a baker and Sleepy Simon, or Sexy Simon, or Sneaky Simon. And that would have been a different world.
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The point is that Simon the kitten has no idea who Simple Simon is, nor even the vaguest curiosity. Cats do not construct a narrative out of life. Life to them is not sad, it is not melancholy, and it does not require a punch line or stock characters. It is not a nursery rhyme nor a Broadway musical nor even a television mini-series. If life were any of those things we humans would not require the invention of those things. And what a tumultous world that would be. If you know anybody who is a drama queen or king, you know what I mean.
*
From a cat’s perspective, life is crushingly simple. Simon does not care if he has a name or not. He is indifferent. I am the one concerned with the name game, me and my wife and Harry Anderson and Larry Hart. And darn it, Simon is going to learn his name. Is it a waste of time? Well, as Einstien says, time is bent. And a story of the universe with a begining, a middle and an end is an illusion, a soap opera written to an outline prepared by a producer with an agenda that has almost nothing to do with the plot line. In other words, God may have all the answers but what the hell makes you think knowing the answers would do you any good? At least that's how it must look to Simon's little kitty cat eyes.

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