Sorry, Ringo

I grew up worshiping the Beatles. I've listened to them on every format from the little radio I immortalized on YouTube to the cloud player that doesn't sound any better than that old nine-volt transistor radio. I've bought Abbey Road in vinyl, cassette, CD, and MP3. As soon as I verified that my kids ears worked, I pumped Yellow Submarine into their heads.  

In addition to some serious philosophy, The Beatles had a whimsical sense of humor. So what took me so long to spoof them in this piece called Ringo Marries Yoko and why do I feel guilty for dumping a bit of satire on those two?

I feel similar angst over the piece where I announced that the Cirque du Soleil would abandon their artsy abstract performances. After denouncing shows that only grad students can understand, the article goes on to describe a new show that only a grad student could understand.

In Disney Buys the Holy Land, I offer a viable solution to the Israel/Palestine dispute: turn the whole region into a theme park. Disney's touch will, by definition, render Jerusalem the happiest place on earth. When it comes to ideas for rides, spectacles, and action figures,  Lord knows the Holy Land has material to spare.

By now, everyone on earth has lived through at least one financial meltdown caused by someone else's greed. My pieces entitled "Downsize your Children" and "Kick Your Assets" are intended as helpful guidance for navigating the next Wall Street induced crisis.

One way to combat financial Armageddon would be to fix the US healthcare system. In "Buggy Obamacare Website Cost More than Iraq War," I postulate that the cure might kill the patient. No worries! We can always migrate to Canada for free health care.

Speaking of Canada ... because these pieces show up in The Sage, a Canadian humor site, I felt obliged to pick on my northern neighbors in "US Immigration Refused Entry to Migrating Geese."  Humor aside, those geese are lovely to see in flight but kind of disgusting up close.

Buenos Dias, Canada!

I'm celebrating the release of "Aqueduct to Nowhere," the standalone sequel to "No Roads Lead to Rome" by trying to make Canada laugh.

This attempt at cross-border humor may result in the first Nobel Peace Prize for Satire or a warrant for my arrest in Saskatoon.

The good folks at The Sage News have created a kinder, gentler, sillier alternative to The Onion. (They would have called it The Scallion, but an obstinate old farmer from Blubber Bay refuses to sell the URL.)

My recent pieces range from an expose of House Jock vs. Senate Nerd Towel Snapping in the US Capitol to a thoughtful bit called Obamacare Unleashes Armageddon about how uninsured Americans have such superior healthcare that they are willing to die for it.

I'm sure the busy folks in Meat Cove and Loon Lake share my dislike of top ten lists. That's why I wrote the Top 10 Reasons to Avoid Top 10 Lists and followed quickly with a tweet-able Top 10 list on How to Master Twitter in 10 Easy Tweets.

The Epic Shutdown of the US Government will probably be over by the time my tweets reach the Yukon Territories, but I was thoughtful enough to share the benefits in case my northern neighbors ever wonder why so many non-essential US Government workers snuck across the border to find work during the crisis.

Note that none of these bits mention my sequel because self-promotion might be considered impolite in Dingwall, Moose Jaw, and Snafu Creek. I'm sure that my seven or eight  readers in Nippers Harbour will appreciate my kindler, gentler, almost indirect approach to marketing. That's why I wrote this piece about My Big Fat Facebook Divorce.

Finally, I'm well aware that some of Canada is bilingual and I humbly apologize to the wonderful Spanish speaking people of Quebec for the somewhat English nature of my writing. Lo siento, amigos.

The decline and fall of damn near everything continues in Aqueduct to Nowhere, the sequel to No Roads Lead to Rome.

How I Lost the War

The phone rang around midnight.

“Wake up you smart ass Jew-boy!” a drunkard shouted.

It was my belligerent landlord, Mr. Hemison.  He was generally tolerable, but tonight he was on a bender.

“You might as well commit suicide right now!”

As a poor student in Westwood, one of L.A.’s richer zip codes, I was willing to put up with a certain amount of abuse in exchange for low rent.  “What’s wrong, Mr. Hemison?”

“You’re losing the war against the ants.”

It was true. The ants were winning.

For $75 a month, I had a small room in the basement and a job as the building’s caretaker. I pulled weeds, purged hairballs from clogged drains, and vacuumed the Astroturf stairways. To make ends meet, I snuck into the unguarded cafeteria of a nearby housing co-op for my meals.  

The tenants were all UCLA students like I was. In addition to fighting ants, we battled the high rents  and turned a dense and narrow neighborhood west of Fraternity Row into a student ghetto.  Most of the area’s small apartments were stuffed two students to a bedroom. Mr. Hemison had no idea how many illegal sublets and permanent “visitors” lived in his building. He was usually too drunk to care.

The only people living in worse squalor were the Frat Row bros.

When they weren’t having 6AM Tequila Sunrise parties and then taking over busy intersections to misdirect traffic on Gayley Ave, the brothers blasted music with enough sound power to keep the rest of us dazed and confused.

Early one morning, a travelling preacher dragged a large wooden cross up Fraternity Row and planted it on the front lawn of Tappa Tappa Kegga. He had a full head of hurricane-proof hair and looked self-righteous in a three-piece suit. He had a bull horn and was on a mission to save the fraternity brothers from themselves.

“Fornicators!” he shouted.  “Pagans! Pornographers! Pleasure mongers!”

I was walking to an early class but couldn’t resist waiting to see the fireworks.

Unfortunately for Right Reverend Potty Mouth, the brothers slept through his tirade. Tired of preaching to no one, he followed me onto campus screaming “Repent you masturbator!” at the back of my head.

His cross had a wheel at the bottom which enabled him to move pretty fast. He was a real holy roller but I eventually outran him.

In retrospect, I wish I had thought to invite him back to my apartment building to rain holy hellfire down upon the ants.  After riding us of pestilence, perhaps he could have exorcised Mr. Hemison’s demons, too.