SammonSays » General Humor

Loving Carmel

John Sammon — Sun, 08 Apr 2012 16:01:41 +0000

Carmel is quaint, charming, a forested vision, but also a desire in the mind, a striving for ordered, landscaped perfection, sloping downward on the side of a hill toward a breathtaking visage of the Pacific Ocean.
To live in Carmel is to be upscale in a society that values upscale.
How could I describe Carmel?
Start at the top of Ocean Avenue off Highway 1, the main street, looking down a tiered, steep road that would be a perfect slalom ski run if it snowed in Carmel, which it hardly ever does. This is a village. It’s called a village.
Since many of the homes here are built like mini castles of the Elizabethan Age compete with tiny turrets, one could assume Carmel is a village like in “Ye Olde Merry England,” or as in Camelot. However, there must be no village idiot in Carmel.
If Carmel is like an old English village, then a village idiot would have to be a mud-encrusted, moronic foul-smelling scoundrel in Medieval rags drooling at the mouth who accosts you while begging for a Tuppence or a Farthing (English coins). I’ve walked all over Carmel and never encountered such a person, so there must be no village idiot in Carmel.
In fact, many of the people in Carmel look intelligent and successful. Perhaps that’s why I feel like I don’t fit in. No matter. You can still love a place even if it doesn’t love you back.
There are two kinds of people in Carmel, locals and tourists. Locals tend to walk down Ocean Avenue in expensive designer clothing looking straight ahead and appearing seriously focused, like they know where they’re going. Tourists on the other hand are seen gaping with wide blinking eyes, like they’ve never seen any of this before. They often have cameras draped around their necks.
For example, the guy in the white sweatshirt who stops at the stone planter median in the crosswalk in the middle of Ocean Avenue to snap a picture of his girlfriend dressed in cutoff denim shorts worn over black leggings—I’m pretty sure are tourists. Conversely, the fortyish-looking blonde lady with the expensive gold lame sweater and numerous gold matching wristbands getting into a Mercedes and who attractively appears like she might be an ex-high school cheerleader—-I’m fairly positive is a local.
So is the man in the shorts and red baseball cap that says “Poppy Hills.”
There goes a bald guy in a white apron, a chef. There are a lot of class restaurants in Carmel.
There are also a lot of Mercedes Benz’s in Carmel, which is one reason on this sun-splashed day I’m driving around and around searching for and not finding an available parking space. The truck delivering supplies to a store stopped in the middle of the small street ahead and is blocking me while the supplies are offloaded. Because of this and numerous crossing pedestrians, Carmel teaches you patience. Hey if the place wasn’t beautiful, it wouldn’t be so popular.
I will eventually find a parking spot six blocks away from my destination. Walking is good exercise.
The architectural style of the wood, brick, and stucco white-washed businesses of the downtown, many with red tiled roofs, represent a charming mixture of Spanish, Mediterranean, and King Arthur’s England influences that might be described as “Euro-Cromwellian-Hispanic-Mission-Italianate-Rustic-Chic.”
Some businesses have small wooden hanging signs that identify them without garishness, and second-story balconies so low you could jump off them without injury. Tiny back alleys abound, lined with potted plants, some with mysterious office spaces overhead. Everything says understatement, high style and good taste. Many of the businesses offer real estate, fashions or art most of us can’t afford to purchase—-but wish we could.
The forest dominates, the wonderful trees, the pines, making you feel you’re in the mountains. Carmel residents love their trees. Be warned. If you bump into a tree with your car, and drive off without leaving an insurance note, you can be charged with hit and run.
The neighborhoods are hushed, and with such ordered, perfect yards. Look at that hanging azalea, and that hedge carved in the shape of Clint Eastwood. How did they do that? An army of hired landscapers.
Many of the homes are miniature Hansel and Gretel type cottages with designer rocket or square-shaped chimneys made of expensive flagstone, rock or brick. The owners are obviously proud of owning a home in Carmel because they like to add little touches of class to their property. There’s a rustic arbor arch with flowers over an entranceway, and a metal sun figure hung on the outside near the window of another house next to a tiny, single-car, 1940s garage door. And there’s a tastefully tiled sign that reads “Harmony House.” He must be a musician. There’s a decorative tile sign outside another house (never a cheap plastic placard) that has the actual name of the owner, “The Joneses.”
It’s so quiet here.
Not a sound except the rustle in the high trees. No prank-pulling children yelling and throwing rocks. No one is about on this little street. Where is everybody? Maybe they’re inside reading a book, or away on a business trip attempting to pay the mortgages for these properties.
I love Carmel, and though I don’t actually live here, I feel it’s a part of me anyway. The ordered serenity, the opulence, we’d all like a little bit of that. After visiting, I think maybe I’ll cut down those unsightly weeds in my front yard, and hang a decorative sun figure on the fence.

Limbaugh’s Angry Oink

John Sammon — Sat, 03 Mar 2012 18:46:22 +0000

Since it’s okay for Rush Limbaugh to resort to name-calling and over the air identify a young woman who testified before Congress in favor of contraceptive coverage as a “slut,” it’s okay for me to use this space to call Limbaugh a “pig.”
No wait! I’m not gonna do that, sink to his level. I will use the more dignified word “porker.”
The porker has made a career out of sitting before a microphone and issuing invective, venom and charges of disloyalty, dishonesty, slander, name calling, all in the name of bogus patriotism—-in other words—–an angry conservative oink!
Let’s get something straight right now. I’m not against the porker’s right to broadcast, because he’s essentially an entertainer who insults much like Don Rickles used to before he mellowed. There maybe is even a kernel of truth once in awhile in some of what Limbaugh says. What’s perhaps unfortunate is that so many people take him seriously, because, other than moving his lips and puffing forth inanities and insanities and un-sanitized vulgarities, what has he done—other than add gross layers of fat to his always swollen protuberances?
The porker talks about patriotism and accuses everybody he doesn’t like of being a traitor. But the jelly-roll never served in the military. Like most conservatives, he’s never served his country one day, but worked tirelessly advancing himself and his ponderous bulk—number one!
It is a statistical fact that political conservatives avoid military service like it was the plague at a rate over the liberals they despise at a ratio of two-to-one. Limbaugh the porker avoided the Vietnam War because he had a high draft number and after he virtually flunked out of school because as his mother stated, “he wasn’t interested in anything except radio.”
I doubt the military, which depends on a system of standardization, could have designed a uniform big enough for Limbaugh anyway, even though the German army made one large enough for Herman Goering. Nevertheless, the porker often verbally wraps himself in the flag, and given the size of his girth, we’re talking a serious big flag here—this is a banner formerly displayed on the side of a building.
Like all the other FOX News to-the-right-of-Genghis-Kahn invective spinners, Limbaugh got his start sitting, the same position where he remains today, originally playing records as a disc jockey. He wormed his way onto talk radio in the early 1980s when the Fairness Doctrine, an on-the-air requirement that you have to allow and respect opposing viewpoints when you lie through your teeth, was repealed.
The rest is history. While eating rich calorie-laden foods and swelling rapidly, Limbaugh tapped into the rich market audience of angry, Caucasian, young male rural Southern gas station attendants who felt threatened by the Civil Rights Movement, women’s rights and other groups demanding equality. This angry group of fans, some of them overweight like Limbaugh, wanted a return to the old days where people of color and women knew their place, thus the porker’s “slut” remark. He feels himself elementally qualified to tell young women what they should do with their bodies.
This is kind of ironic in that Limbaugh can’t seem to control his own State-of-Texas-sized body. Part of this can be attributed to the fact that he gets very little physical activity except switching on the microphone and that region around the mouth.
At first, when the porker says something stupid, you take it serious and want to respond, like I am doing here. In the past, his vast array of mis-pronouncements has been as incredible as they are entertaining. But he manages always to tweak that pathologic feeling of bitterness among young white boys that this country is no longer theirs.
The litany is too vast to recite here, but it includes blaming the Sierra Club for the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, castigating people who exercise for putting a strain on the health care system (Limbaugh thinks inactivity is healthy), calling Obama’s wife fat (the pot calling the kettle black), that women rally admire male chauvinist pigs (Limbaugh’s pig remark is unintentionally honest despite himself), and that Obama is a head hunter with a bone in his nose who used to cook missionaries in a stew pot in Kenya.
In other words, up is down, square is round, black is white.
I think the porker thinks he’s also slim.
He starts his day with a calorie-laden egg sandwich dripping with rich butter laced with sugar and maple syrup poured over all. This prepares his muscle-bound mouth for the day’s worth of poison airtime to come. He chuckles a lot to himself about how clever his is, but most importantly, how successful and important he is. If he wasn’t important, why would half the country listen to him at all?
Pretty good for a fat little nondescript man with a talent for the snide.

Vile Vials

John Sammon — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 23:33:13 +0000

There’s something about me that really angers people. A nice guy like me.
Maybe it’s because I’m so open, vulnerable, intelligent, handsome. I don’t know.
It’s uncanny how I have this innocent ability to infuriate. If I could just channel it, find a way to make money off it. For example, I’ve taken my share of low blow cruel shots at work. I’ve worked for some vicious, sadistic, dishonest, scheming people.
I had a manager one time slam his fist on my desk in front of other employees over some trivial matter. Now, if I walk into his office and hit him, I’m up on charges of assault in battery. I have to spend at least a night in jail (I’ve already been there once), pay a fine, money I don’t have, or do public service picking up leaves alongside the highway in orange pajamas.
He slams his fist on your desk because he’s afraid of his boss over him, and wants to use you as a scapegoat. You know you have to pay a bill and can’t quit your job. So you take it. You need the pay, so you take it from him. The system favors the abuser.
But you don’t have to take it lying down.
It seems that life is a conspiracy designed to humiliate. Always petty humiliation. Like the late Rodney Dangerfield used to say, “I don’t get no respect.”
Back in the Old West, you could just shoot it out with the bastard. But no more.
Nowadays, you have to take his insult if you want to keep your bill paying job, until it gnaws at your guts. There’s a better way to deal with these people.
For example, the abusive boss who slammed his fist on your desk over nothing: He does a quarterly written job evaluation of you that says you’re a brainless wimp, a report that’s full of falsehoods because the abusive boss needs to act tough with you, the scapegoat, so he can convince his boss that he’s a no-nonsense manager—the boss who he (the no-nonsense manager) is afraid of.
He’s chosen you to make an example of so he can make points with his boss. This is the corporate world.
You refuse to sign the false evaluation. He gets mad and calls you into a meeting room to threaten you.
That’s when you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom but go into the hallway instead and call his office phone. He goes into his office to answer it. You fake a sexy female voice and put him on hold. You return, get his coffee cup off the table, go back out into the hall, and urinate in it. Then you return it.
He comes back, sits down, drinks some coffee, smacks his lips, and tells you what he will do to you if you don’t sign.
“Have some more coffee,” you say.
Or, leave him some ear wax.
Let me explain.
If you know anything of history, you might know that people in Victorian times used to give locks of their hair, usually preserved in a glass locket, as a loving keepsake. This was sweet. But if parts of you can be used for expressing affection, why not disdain?
If you have a plugged ear, remove some of the wax (safely, not with a Q-tip), and place it in a small glass vial.
Walk to your mean boss’s office, look around, make sure he’s gone, and place the vial on his desk. Then leave.
If he’s a real sadist, and if you’re lucky, he’ll think it’s cinnamon and mix some in his coffee.
You think this is petty? We live in petty times. I mean, c’mon! Some people really deserve it. Look at government officials. You say to yourself, what rock did they find this guy under?
I had a supervisor who called me behind my back “worthless.” You really have to say to a guy like that, “thank you for having faith in the potential value of a single human being.”
Another boss told me, “I wouldn’t give you the sweat off my (body part – dirty expletive deleted).”
Right then and there, I made the determination to give him the sweat off my (dirty expletive deleted).
I went to a sauna and sweated some sweat off my expletive.
I put the sweat in a small vial (excellent small glass vials can be purchased at any gold prospecting shop near you). I put the vial on his desk.
There are many more things you can do.

Order my new CD and accompanying booklet, “How to Enjoy Corporate Emasculation,” only $79.95 while supplies last.
I show you all the in-and-outs—for example, how to call your boss a swear word to his face in seventeen foreign languages. He won’t know what you’re saying, and I promise you he deserves it, and this will make your day.
Let’s face it. Much of life is having your cojones removed if you’re a man. I don’t know what’s removed if you’re a woman. However, studies show that women rationalize and accept petty humiliation much better than do men and often respond to it by overeating. There are a lot of unhappy, fat women out there who should buy my new kit.
The package also includes a directory of women who, for a small fee, are willing to go up to your boss’s house, knock on the door, and tell his wife that he took advantage of her in his Ford van.
Believe you me, the world will take on a different look for you from the moment you start putting my practices into practice. You’ll forget all about your earlier vow to go in a closet with a pistol and do the right thing to end your suffering. Don’t do that. Don’t get mad—or sad.
Get creative.
For example, I can show you how to use your body odor to get back at the SOB.
Or, I show you how to design and place a tiny microchip tracking device on your boss’s jacket so you can tell where he is all day. This is particularly useful in big office buildings. Let’s say he’s come from an angry meeting where female subordinates told him he was going to be slapped with a sexual harassment suit.
You missed the meeting, and the bad blood. He’s angry. He needs to chew somebody out. You.
He searches all over for you. The bathroom. But you already left. Your tracking device saw him coming. Then the lunchroom. You left there two minutes before he arrived. While he searches for you in the boardroom, you’re in his office lifting and drinking a Heineken from his executive refrigerator.
At five o’clock you appear, and he yells, “Where were you?”
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” you calmly respond.
Try this three times a week and he’s ready for a heart attack. He’ll avoid you. You’re freaking him out.
I show you how to master the art, how to become, if not the king of the corporate jungle, then the emasculated underling king. Only $79.95. Order now!

Makin’ Money

John Sammon — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 16:43:03 +0000

Floot My Nooter

John Sammon — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 15:49:43 +0000

All your life have you been burdened with an overwhelming sexual desire? That means you want to be doing it twenty-four hours a day. Why? Why were you cursed with this? You’re not happy. Who would be. Since you can’t get enough (sex), there’s never enough.
This has interfered with your job and career and has caused you to perhaps shun church where you might have eventually (through pleading and sobbing) gained entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven.
Sex! Sex! Sex!
What is it, but a lot of grunting and sweating on other people and writhing around like a couple of worms, you on top, me on top, both of us on top. Me out the window. Running naked through the yard in front of the neighbors.
Castration isn’t an answer. Too painful.
It’s too much. Think of the time you waste on this. It’s all you ever think about. You could be in a car lot talking to a salesman about a new car you can’t really afford…and yep! You’re not paying attention, but thinking about something else (doing it).
Do you think you’re too old to be thinking such thoughts? Bull! The older you get, the more you think. But you’re also active. You do things. You shop the web for sex-related paraphernalia. Sometimes you don’t buy. You just look.
This is revolting. God intended this as a simple act of procreation, and here you’ve gone and turned it into a mental EBay. Anything is possible.
Are you sick? No, because you’re sick of it. If you admit you have a problem, you’re not sick.
Maybe you should run for political office.
Why can’t you just be a rock star? You want to be worshipped, but not for your beautiful body and good looks. Not for those!
In the 1960s in London they used to ask, are you a Mod, or a Rocker?
George Harrison cleverly answered, “I’m a Mocker.”
They could ask you, are you a Floot, or a Nooter? (A Swedish porn film you once saw was titled, “Floot My Nooter”).
You’d answer, “I’m a Footer.”
Androgynously, you’re saying love me! Need me! But not for sex. Not that. Of course you’d still enjoy it. But you want to be valued for your talent…your mind, perhaps for playing an electric ukulele and wearing a battery-powered body stocking made of Saran Wrap.
You could sing songs that were predictions based on your supernatural clairvoyant powers (proven in numerous previous predictions).
You’re not asking for much. Only to be regarded as a supreme icon, a sort of entertainment deity, instead of just merely flesh, to be used and abused by people for their sick, disgusting compulsions.
Of course that doesn’t mean you would ever become celibate.
That would be too much.

An Interview with the World’s Longest Surviving Severed Head

John Sammon — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 21:49:02 +0000

We are interviewing Loren C. Vandersnarff, the world’s longest surviving severed head. Mr. Vandersnarff, welcome to our Sammonsays studio.
Loren – Thank you John.
Sammonsays – How did you come to be the world’s longest living severed head?
Loren – It was in a farming accident, in Buel, Idaho. I was operating a threshing machine, cutting wheat. The machine hit a bump and I tumbled off. The next thing I knew, I was as you see me here.
Sammonsays – A severed head.
Loren – Right.
Samonsays – What was your first reaction?
Loren – A feeling of losing a great amount of weight very quickly.
Sammonsays – I see. But how is it you came to survive such an accident? Most people would not have.
Loren – I don’t know. I’ve always been a rather independent, self-contained person. I’ve always been the kind who can adapt to adversity, all I know is, I’m still here and enjoying every new day.
Sammonsays – The accident made you something of a celebrity, hasn’t it?
Loren – Yes. I’ve been on Letterman, Leno and Conan shows. I was offered a part in the upcoming re-make of the classic film, Beat Me Bite Me Burn Me Stab Me Want Me. I also had a small part in the Lee Van Cleef movie if you remember, Zontar, the Thing from Venus. I recently was offered a position to head a new nonprofit coalition, Americans without Torsos, based in Washington D.C.
Sammonsays – Then you feel lucky to be the way you are?
Loren – Well, not exactly, there are challenges. Do you have any idea how hard it is to meet women? I’m single. I’ve tried everything, hanging out at bars, going to the produce section at the supermarket. I can’t seem to meet the right lady, someone who will love me for who I am. I mean, I’ll be out on a date with a good-looking goddess, and she gets up to excuse herself to go freshen up in the ladies room, and bumps the table, and I roll off. Do you know how embarrassing that is?
Sammonsays – I can imagine.
Loren – Try getting on a bus. There is no special provision for a disability like this. I have to get a rolling start toward the stairs, bounce off an object like a rock or can, hit the first step, and then bounce up again and again. That’s unless somebody helps me. One time a bunch of kids mistook me for a soccer ball. That was a narrow escape. What a disaster that could have been. Another time a gypsy woman mistakenly thought I was a face in a crystal ball and tried to make off with me. I’m so bitter I don’t even want to talk about it.
Sammonsays – I’m sure our audience identifies with your struggles and challenges. On a lighter note, could you describe your average day for us?
Loren – Sure. Usually I get up in the morning, roll out of bed and make some coffee. That’s always a challenge, getting the coffee grounds into the top of the coffee maker. Then, I check my email on the computer.
Sammonsays – I have to ask. How?
Loren – By use of tongue. I have developed my tongue over time and relentless exercise into the strongest tongue in the world. I hold the record in the Guinness Book for bench pressing a 12-pound casaba melon with my tongue. There has been talk of adding such an event to the next Olympic Games.
Sammonsays – That tie you’re wearing?
Loren –You like that?
Sammonsays – Very colorful. A red tie with a glowing battery-powered neon depiction of Lady Gaga.
Loren – A fan sent it to me. I have hundreds of fans and they often send me presents I can’t use, like work boots. But this tie, since I have no neck, it’s attached right down here with a surfboard bungee chord.
Sammonsays – We’re running short on time. Do you have any advice for anyone out there who might find themselves in a similar situation?
Loren – Well, it might be, never give up, or lose sight of your dreams, even if you’re viewing them from a much lower position. The world is a circle, so try to be a well-rounded individual. If you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, you don’t necessarily need the shoulders. And always play to win, plan and train for your future, and always be one step ahead.

I’m the World’s Largest Albino Pigmy

John Sammon — Fri, 10 Jun 2011 17:38:50 +0000

I am the world’s biggest…..albino Pigmy.

You didn’t know did you?

The Pigmies don’t either.

They don’t like the word Pigmy. Today, they go by the name “Baka.”

Three times I have applied for membership to the tribe, and three times I have been ignored, after completing the entrance test. I know I got a high score. For example, on the question, “what would you do if a kangaroo hopped by?”
1. Kill it and immediately eat the raw liver, then let out a tremolo cry of triumph.
2. Let it pass in the hope of attracting more kangaroos.
3. Go home to your mud hut because you’d likely miss with a Waba poison-dipped arrow anyway.
4. None of the above.
I correctly answered “none of the above,” because I know there aren’t any kangaroos in Africa. That’s an Australian Bushman thing. Different tribe.

I didn’t even receive back my test score.

I called for confirmation hearings before a panel of Pigmies to have myself declared an official Pigmy. Nothing. No response.

I can prove it. Okay. You wanna play hardball? Two can do that.

I’m filing a lawsuit in Superior Court against the Baka people of Central Africa. You’ll be hearing from my attorney.

I am, I swear, the world’s largest albino Pigmy. How do I know? At birth, I had an amulet etched with the symbol of half a tiny white torso…dressed in Baka garb….hung from a necklace around my neck. I still have it.

Somewhere out there, I have a Pigmy albino twin with the other half of the etched figure. We should be sharing joint chieftainship of the tribe. Instead, I was somehow disinherited of my rightful half.

I would be a progressive ruler. Since I am the biggest (other than my lost twin) albino Pigmy, when I made a speech, the people would look up to me. They would literally look up.

I would work for Pigmy rights. Pigmies have gotten a raw deal because people like to think of dwarfs in an evil light. In 1930s jungle movies, nothing gave the audience more delight than an elephant squashing a Pigmy.
I would demand a formal apology from MGM.

My next order of business would be to secure American aid, like that going to Iraq.
I have to acknowledge that it would be an idyllic existence. The natives sit around in their designer jeans (very small cut), in their government-supplied condos…when some suckers…I mean tourists…show up….on a bus.

The natives climb into their native costumes. Do a few dances. Sign some autographs for money. Sell some poison dart replicas made in China.

After the tourists depart minus their cash, the natives get back into their designer duds and hang out listening to the radical sounds of heavy metal from far-off million-watt Clear Channel ZULU in Johannesburg.

Other than that, the Baka are just like you and me. They love their children, and they drive their cars (very small cars) to the supermarket.

See Film Clip – Scrooge is a Good Republican

John Sammon — Mon, 30 May 2011 19:38:19 +0000

Click on the link below to see why Ebenezer Scrooge got a bad rap when he was just a good conservative.

I’m Mista’ Fyed

John Sammon — Sat, 02 Apr 2011 16:47:44 +0000

(A man comes into an office who has a New York accent, pronouncing mister like mistah).

Okay, this should be easy. What’s your name?
I’m Mista’ Fyed.
You’re what?
I’m Mista’ Fyed.
You’re mystified? About what?
What do you mean about what?
Why are you mystified?
Why am I Mista’ Fyed?
Yes?
Because I’m who I am. I’m Mista’ Fyed.
You already told me that, but what are you mystified about?
Look, are you gonna sell me some insurance?
Not until you tell me why you’re mystified. Is it me personally? Is it the process, the filling out the forms? You can’t be mystified. You have to be sure or this won’t work. There has to be trust.
Why can’t I be Mista’ Fyed?
I want you to be comfortable, not mystified.
I’m comfortable being Mista’ Fyed.
You are?
Sure.
How can you be comfortable being mystified?
I’ve been Mista’ Fyed all my life.
You have?
That’s right.
That’s terrible.
What’s terrible about it?
That you’ve been mystified all your life.
Why is that terrible?
Because if you’re mystified, then you’re perplexed, bewildered, mysterious.
That’s not me. I’m more the bewitched, bothered and bewildered type.
(Exasperated). Look. Let’s move on. Let’s just say for my sake, that you’re certain you want this, and you’re not mystified.
I’m not Mista’ Fyed?
Right.
Okay.
Now. Just give me your name.
Okay.
What is it?
It’s a Spanish name. I was named after Pancho Villa.
Okay. We’re getting somewhere. What’s your last name.
Fyed.
What?
I’m Villa Fyed.
You’re vilified?
Yeah.
Why?
What do you mean why?
Why are you vilified? Who’s vilifying you? It’s not me.
Of course it’s not you.
Then who is it?
It’s me. I’m Villa Fyed.
But why are you vilified?
I guess it’s my mother. It’s just the way things worked out.
Oh, it’s your mother who vilifies you.
Well, she named me.
What’s your name?
What?
I still haven’t gotten your name.
I’m Villa Fyed.
(Angry) Look! We’ve already established that fact. What are you some kind of a nut, a masochist. You enjoy being vilified?
Oh, I don’t know if I enjoy it. I have to be it. I have to be who I am.
Why are you so freaked out about being vilified?
How many times have you asked me why I’m Villa Fyed? Seems to me you’re the one who’s freaked out.
Look! I don’t care if you’re vilified, or mystified, or whatever. Okay? Do you want to buy some insurance or not?
Yes I would like to.
Okay. Wait a minute. You said you wanted a group plan?
Yes.
Okay. Okay. (Takes a deep breath). Let’s start with someone other than yourself.
How about my sister?
Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. Who is she?
It’s Signa. Signa Fyed.
What?
Her name.
(Stares at him, pauses, then looks around, then eyes him again). Signified?
Yeah.
Her name is signified by what?
I just told you.
Do you have a brother?
Yes I do.
What’s his name?
He’s Bono Fyed.
Get out of here. Now!

Slobs Take Over

John Sammon — Sat, 19 Mar 2011 00:04:13 +0000

The rampant growth of slobism worldwide is as distressing as it is disappointing, and disproves Darwin’s theory of evolution that things evolve for the better and more sophisticated.
In short. Slobs are taking over.
Think I’m wrong. Book an airline flight. Go ahead. I dare ya’. Not only is the plane smaller to stretch fuel (and no I haven’t grown that much fatter). There’s no room for my legs. This plane is smaller.
Sure. They don’t bother to try and cook gourmet meals on the plane like they used to, but instead throw a wrapped piece of horse meat slaughtered three years ago in your face. That’s the meal.
You think this is unfair? It’s not really, because look at the passengers. They look like they deserve it. The sorriest looking group of slobs you ever saw.
For those of you not old enough to remember classier times, people used to actually wear nice clothes on the plane. They used to dress like they were important people going somewhere important.
They used to use deodorant. And mouthwash too.
Look around you. See that guy with the exposed pot belly because his smelly tee shirt is too short? See his tattoo. Here’s a guy who belongs belching and farting in the greasy hold of a trawler hauling lice-infested potatoes on a hopefully slow voyage to Quito, Ecuador.
See that gal over there? The one with the black dyed hair that she took boot black to dye, so she’d look Gothic? The one with the tattoo? The spikes through her lips? The leather boots like she just came off the shift of an S & M camp; psycho massage parlor?
Ask her to point to South America on a map. She can’t do it.
I’ll bet her name is Wendy. She’ll hurt you and desert you.
How did these people get on the plane? How can they afford to fly at all? Where did they come from? Under what rock?
They used to be called “the masses.” You know, average people. Drug snorting losers who work in chain stores for minimum wage. The ones politicians are always sucking up to promising they’ll give them free things like medical care and benefits.
They’re coming out of holes and caves and taking over the world.
It used to be that the rabble were confined to a certain part of town from which they rarely emerged, the run-down, rat infested tenements and narrow alleyways where sewage and filth ran open in the streets. When you would walk these narrow reeking stinking avenues, if you were one of the superior well dressed nobility, you would look up to be ready to dodge urine poured on your head from a window. And you would carry a good stout club to knock them on the head if they didn’t know their proper place as underlings.
They’re modern now. But they’re still peasants. They’re everywhere today. I went into a gambling casino in Nevada. People used to dress up to go out. Now they look like a police lineup for serial perverts.
Here’s a guy who hasn’t shaved in a week. Who has on shorts (dirty) and geek white socks with black worn (once nice) dress shoes. With a tee shirt that has written on it, “so many women, so little time.”
He’s pigging out on the free shrimp platter. He’ll swell. There will be more of him tomorrow.
And I have to sit next to him in a booth at the restaurant where I have to look at him while I try to enjoy my $6.95 (on special) prime rib.
I’ll tell you what. This guy belongs in the boiler room of a Chinese locomotive on the Mongolian Border stoking coal.
Where are they all coming from? The ignorant. The tattooed. The unwashed.
You want another example? I see on TV a kid accepting an award from a state senator at a ceremony. The kid is wearing what almost amounts to pajamas. Tee shirt. Shorts and tennis shoes. To visit a state senator.
Does this kid have a mother? Possibly. Luckily for us, whoever occasionally deals with him made him at least wear some skimpy clothes. Next time come naked and dirtier.
Go to San Francisco. Look at the people there. They used to dress up in San Francisco.
Government did this to us. They encourage society to break down. That means no rules, no requirements, no responsibilities. The three R’s. They also hand out money and benefits from my salary that help people escape their tenements. Then the masses show up in airports, and fly next to me to Hawaii and help ruin my trip, flying with money they didn’t earn, through a job given them by a crooked politician because of their economic background.
The masses are polluting the landscape with their appearance. I suggest, that since our government is taking our rights away and spying illegally on us, they could also enact dress codes and restrict common people to a no more than a thirty percent quota in planes, restaurants and public houses.