Thursday, February 11, 2016


         I'm planning on dining tonight with the Inventor and Hawkeye. Hawkeye's son is a chef, and he's serving gumbo all month at the restaurant he works at. I imagine the gumbo has something to do with Mardi Gras. On the rare occasions that I'm invited to dinner, I have to monitor my eating lest I not have an appropriate appetite at the appointed hour. This is tricky since I've become afflicted with myasthenia gravis. One of the side-effects of the medicine I'm taking is increased appetite. I rarely eat large meals, however, I'm constantly snacking. As long as I have a lot of fruit and snacks around this is not a problem. This morning I had my usual Dunkin' Donuts croissant with an egg in the middle. I achieve this tasty dish by molding the croissant into a birds nest and then splashing an egg into the middle of it. One minute in the microwave, some pepper, a glass of prune juice to wash it down (the prune juice does wonders for geriatric intestines) and I'm fine until noon. When I'm not hungry in the morning I eat a banana, (I have to eat something before I take my two pills.)
          After I woke up from a solid one-and-a-half-hour nap I concocted an interesting dish. I cooked some fresh cauliflower in the plastic device Tobin gave me; I've got a couple hundred cans of sardines so I dumped one of the cans on the cauliflower and then poured hot salsa on top with a generous amount of pepper. This worked out well, and although I'm full right now I'm sure by the time the Inventor picks me up tonight I'll be hungry enough to enjoy my gumbo. The reason I've begun using  hot salsa on things is probably also a result of the myasthenia gravis. Not only has my sense of smell continued to diminish, but so has my sense of taste. Having been a hopeless gluten for most of my life this has served as a gentle hint that I no longer need to gorge myself. The Inventor can still put away an amazing amount of food even when he's not hungry. How I envy him.
          While I was napping I had an interesting dream about a former girlfriend. I met her in the early Sixties. She possessed a striking resemblance to one of my favorite lust-objects -- French movie actress Jean Moreau. Her name was Linda and when I met her she was going through a messy divorce. Her husband came from a rich family and she was going to make a huge score on the divorce settlement. During the time I was seeing her she moved from a swanky place on Astor and Schiller, to a lovely townhouse on Crilly Court, which is just a few blocks from the Ale House. Not only was I a couple of years younger than she, I was bad boyfriend material in those days. (I suppose I still am.) She eventually re-married; the guy she married had something to do with an ice-cream company. Apparently that marriage didn't last either… It was a swell dream.


          Today is Kim's birthday. Kim replaced Gracie as one of our day bartenders. Everyone seems to love her. It's very hard finding suitable bartenders for the Ale House because our regulars tend to all be prima donna's and they usually make mince meat out of callow bartenders. Kim is a pro's pro, and fit in perfectly from the first day she stepped behind the bar.

         Gracie's dog Arthur had an unfortunate seizure. She's hoping it was just a reaction to the flea collar he was wearing. Field Spaniel's are a peculiar breed and after making some calls Gracie learned that there was at least one blood-line that had a tendency toward serious seizures. We are all crossing our fingers for Arthur.


         This morning Street Jimmy showed up for a change. He said he "sort of slept at Starbucks" last night. "The white lady be thinkin' I be goin' back to sleep only I fooled her so she couldn' put me out in the cold…"
          "You don't look that tired."
         "Tha's 'cause I slept real good yesterday. When I gets done here I'm gonna go to the church an' talk to the pastor an' tell him I needs to get some sleep…"
          "I thought the priest at St. Michaels tossed you out and told you not to come back."
           Jimmy shook his head, "uh, uh, it was the po-leece tha' threw me out. I'm gonna tell the pastor tha' I needs to sleep an' it cold out an' the church is gods house an' they shouldn' be hypocrites…"
           "That's certainly a compelling message.
           Jimmy was upset about the girl who was shot while sitting in her car on 21st Street yesterday. "I heard she was an' innocent bystander." When Jimmy asked me to read him the story on the front page of the Tribune I grabbed the paper and gave him the pertinent details: "She was sitting in her car talking to her dad, some guy was running down the street shooting at another guy. You know those ghetto punks are all bad shots and so one of the stray bullets hit her and she said a few final words to her dad, and now she's dead."
          This information reduced Jimmy to the very brink of despair. Staring intently at the photograph of the pretty girl on the front page of the newspaper he said, "damn, tha's terrible. The guy who did this must not have no conscience. I gots a conscience, I done some real bad things an' I feels bad about things I done…It bothers me 'cause I did some real dumb shit…I was young an' I didn' know what I was doin'." Jimmy's eyes were burning and he looked miserable. "I wish I hadn't done those things…" 

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

My Grandfather's Sleeping Cap

            My first nap of the day was short, less than forty-minutes. I feel refreshed so I won't despair. Now that it's winter I have been wearing a stocking cap during my afternoon naps. For some reason my head doesn't feel cold at night. When I was a wee lad one of my memories of my maternal grandfather was his sleeping cap. It resembled a white Santa Klaus hat without the tassel. He also wore a white nightgown which made him look like a character out of a Dickens novel. I remember him well. He married my 16 year-old grandmother when he was 56. They lived a couple of blocks from his bar on 87th and Stony Island. He was a very old man when I arrived on the scene. He sported an old-fashioned flat topped straw hats, smoked a corn cob pipe, had a dapper white mustache, glasses, and was skinny except for a pot belly. 
        I never met my paternal grandfather. He was a dentist. My father only had a couple of photos of him. He committed suicide when my father was a teenager. Neither my father nor my paternal grandmother spoke about him much. I have fond memories of the three grandparents I knew. 


         Last night at the Old Town Ale House I watched the New Hampshire primary returns with a young man named Mike. Although he'd only been to the Ale House a couple of times since moving back to Chicago from Russia, he thought we might be the only bar on the North Side showing the election returns on TV. Mike especially liked my Putin portrait. Having lived in Russia for eight years he thought, not unwisely, that Putin was a despicable swine. He said if I ever wished to sell the pastel he'd love to buy it. 
(Because nobody showed an interest purchasing my gang-bang painting I took it down and replaced it with my painting of the naked waitress' from Zanies Comedy Club.) 
          The pollsters were right -- Trump and Bernie clobbered their opponents. I think Hillary will eventually prevail, but I'm not sure. She's a terrible candidate, and does not come over well on TV. Bernie's victory speech went on much too long. I recommend that he study Abraham Lincoln's best speeches. Brevity, Bernie, brevity.  
        I thought Trump would put on a better show. The problem with having sub-human supporters is that you don't have to take your game up even a notch or two to make them happy. I found a couple of the exit polls interesting. 65 percent of Trump supporters said on their way out of the polling places they thought Barack was a Muslim, and 60 percent thought he was born in Kenya. Yeah, our pork eating, beer drinking , church going president is obviously Muslim. And then there's the Kenyan thing: If Cruz is a natural born American because his mother was a US citizen, even if Barack was born in Kenya (of course he wasn't) his mother was a natural born US citizen. I understand that Republicans are not very bright, in fact most of them are semi-human illiterates, but at some point you have wake up and smell the raw sewage overwhelming your trailer park.
         While I was watching the returns Mimi Harris came in the bar with her photographer son, Mark. Mimi is an old-timer. She's six years older than I am and so of course we took a trip down memory lane. Her late husband Sid, who was also a photographer as well as a union organizer, fought in the Spanish Civil War in 1937 and had impeccable left-wing credentials.


          A contrite D-Train called me up and apologized for trying to talk me into letting him drink during the Super Bowl. Once again I urged him to seek out an appropriate program for recovering alcoholics. 


          Street Jimmy was a no show this morning. Other than some frozen puke in the neighbors doorway, the bar wasn't too messy. I took a snow shovel from the basement and scraped up as much of the puke as I could. My business partner is no longer the happy-go-lucky-free-free-spirited-gal of yore. A bitter complaint  resides in her face whenever I attempt to speak. One would hope for a bit of civility at some point. I wish I could remember the author of the following quote: "There are certain polite forms and ceremonies which must be observed in civilized society, or mankind relapses into their original barbarism."

Tuesday, February 9, 2016

Kareem Abdul Jabbar

             I Just finished one of my best naps of the year. This surprised me because I went to bed relatively early last night. Actually, not that early -- I watched the Lew Alcindor-Kareem Abdul Jabbar documentary on HBO which didn't get over until one. The movie brought back a lot of memories. Jabbar was going to UCLA when I was at Cal and so I got to see him play each year when he came to Berkeley. I was present at the game when Cal's center, Bob Presley, poked then Lew Alcindor in the eye. UCLA was on a long winning streak at the time and their next game was against powerhouse Houston. Elvin Hayes was the star of Houston, and because Jabbar was playing with one eye, Houston beat them. Jabbar got his revenge in the NCAA tournament. The Jabbar UCLA basketball teams were the best I've ever seen.
          The movie was quite good. It was a much better game back then; now it's all shooting three pointers. I have to admit it's fun watching Stephen Curry's Golden State Warriors play. Whenever they're on TV I try and watch a couple of quarters. I had court side season tickets in 1975 when the Warriors, led by Rick Barry, won the NBA championship. I won a lot of money when they swept the Bullets in the finals. 
          Jabbar is an interesting guy. When he became a Muslim Hamas fucked him over nicely. He would have been better off letting the Black Muslims exploit him. All they wanted was Mohamed Ali's money and PR value. After divorcing his Muslim wife, Jabbar ended up with a Buddhist white wife with big knockers. As a result his kids come in all sizes and shapes. I was talking to Johnny Ale the other night about the tendency of really tall men to die earlier than average sized men. This is certainly true as far as NBA basketball players are concerned. Jabbar currently has leukemia and a bad heart. 
          My interest in both sports and sex has diminished over the years. I wonder if there's a correlation? I don't think this is a bad thing, at least as far as sports go. The jury is still out on sex.


        Street Jimmy seemed a little more with-it this morning. He said a guy was puking blood on the El last night. "It fucked up, people gots real freaked."
         "Some kid puked in here last night. He was with a big party that some high-end joint tossed for its staff. The kid was wearing a shirt and tie and was trying to get to the door. Hawkeye and I cleaned it up."
          Jimmy doesn't understand why people keep tossing their gum on the floor.
           "Well," I said pausing to consider, "it's gross, but I think it's worse in the joints that cater to the kids. Let me give you the scraper."

Monday, February 8, 2016

A Lost Weekend

          Street Jimmy didn't show up for his sweeping duties on either Saturday or Sunday. This annoyed me because those are our two busiest days. Grasshopper and Johnny Ale said he came in the Ale House just before closing Friday night, and while eating a chicken wing at the end of the bar fell asleep and collapsed to the floor. It needs scarcely to be remarked that the amount of crack he is presently consuming is clearly having a negative effect on not only his physical well being, but his deteriorating social skills.


         Pub Crawl Liz came over to the condo after she brought a small pub crawl into the Ale House Saturday afternoon. I needed her to help me with some computer issues. One of the issues was linking me up with my doctors new website. This is my doctors preferred method of communication. When I visited him last week I told him that my post-nasal drip was getting worse. He recommended I take a nasal spray called Fluticasone Propionate. (So far it's worked like magic.)  Thanks to Liz I'm all set and ready to go on my fourth book, Fraud and Deception. 


          I watched the Republican debate Saturday night in its entirety. The beginning of the debate was hilarious. Someone not familiar with the Republican boobs running for the presidency might be shocked by the slap-stick nature of their campaigns. This was perfectly illustrated when the seven candidates were supposed to come onto the stage. After each candidate's name was called, he was supposed to walk down a narrow corridor and out onto the stage and take his place behind his respective podium. This might seem simple to most people, but not to Dr. Ben Carson, the token black candidate. After the first two candidates walked down the corridor and took their places Carson's name was called. Walking down the corridor that was shielded from the live audience's view, but not the TV audiences, he made it to the entrance before suddenly coming to a dead stop. Clasping his hands, elevating his eyebrows and smiling confidently he seemed oblivious of the hand waving at him to continue. 
           While Carson remained frozen at the entrance a giggling Senator Cruz walked around him. A moment later Donald Trump's name was called. He seemed as confused at Carson and stood next to the still smiling Carson. This made it difficult for Jeb Bush to get around them and onto the stage when his name was called. I wish at times like this I had someone to share moments like this with. And this was just the introductions.
          These are horrible men, and watching them interact with one another reminds me of a quote from Shakespeare's King Henry 5 : Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs, You would say it hath been in all his study. Turn him to any cause of policy, The Gordian  knot of it he will unloose, Familiar as his garter; that, when he speaks, The air, a charter'd libertine, is still…That's the humor of it. The lads didn't disappoint. Cruz got worked over about lying about Carson's leaving the campaign. He apologized to Carson, but in apologizing he lied and said he was only repeating what CNN had reported. Of course this was another falsehood. 
         The best was yet to come. Big-fat-tub-of-shit, Chris Christy disemboweled a very frightened little Marco Rubio. When Rubio panics he repeats the same memorized lines attacking president Obama. After doing this three times in a row Christy figuratively grabbed Rubio by his nuts, spun him around and showed the audience and TV viewers what an empty-suit pip squeak Rubio really is. It was great fun.
         Christy's intestinal by-pass surgery seems to be working. He's down from over four-hundred pounds to just  under three-hundred. If he ever becomes a serious candidate Christy's morbid obesity is sure to become an issue along with the impending trials regarding his complicity in the George Washington Bridge closure.
I'd love to debate Christy, in fact I'd love to debate any one of these maggots. The secret to debating a person who bases everything they say on ignorance and lies is coming up with the proper insults. I wouldn't hire speech writers, I'd borrow comedy writers. 
        Governor Kasich is the Uriah Heep candidate. He's every bit as round shouldered as Nixon. His face wears a perpetual self-satisfied smirk. Rubbing his hands and wrists as if he were washing them he tries to present himself as the only adult in the group. 
         Trump continues to do his Marlon Brando imitation. He manages this with reasonable skill. He mugs, mumbles and shrugs while occasionally raising his forefinger and pointing it at an offending opponent. He comforts himself by calling his fellow debaters a great many names. I especially enjoy watching him humiliate Jeb Bush. 
         Bush knows that he has embarked upon a lost cause but doesn't know how to get out of it without suffering still further humiliation. The stupid gene has infected the entire Bush family, and it's a shame they continue to reproduce.


         After I watched the debate I walked down to the Ale House. D-Train shocked and disgusted me when he walked into the bar. He wanted me to allow him to drink during the Super Bowl. Once I realized he was serious I told him what a pathetic man he was. "You have extreme liver disease, you were on life support two months ago, and now you want to resume drinking!"
         "I don't drink as much as a lot of people."
          "Sure, there are bigger drunks than you, but name one person older than you that drinks a gallon of cheap wine a day? Just one. You can't, because they're all dead."
          Being a man of few words, D-Train smiled, turned abruptly, and left the bar. Of course we'll never serve him another drink, but every other bar on the street will. Obviously he did not bother to enter some kind of program. I guess deep down I'm not surprised, but it is really discouraging. 


         The Super Bowl was painful to behold. I instructed Kim not to put any of the pre-game hype on. Because Tobin was vacationing we ordered pizza's. There were perhaps four of us watching the game intently, and two or three others casually. What made it unbearable wasn't simply the poor quality of the play - with the exception of the Denver, and the Carolina defenses - but the myriad commercials. Some people are so alienated that they find the commercials amusing. These people sicken me. (I almost always avert my eyes when the endless commercials start coming at me like kamikaze planes.) I enjoyed watching Denver make exhibitionist Cam Newton their bitch. It was impossible to root for Peyton Manning because he's a Jeb Bush supporter. The halftime show wouldn't end. Beyonce's legs looked like they belonged on a tight end. (Don't get me wrong, I'd still love to do her.) Bruno Mars seemed to be having fun, but the spastic white boy singer was beyond horrible. I liked Lady Gaga's outfit. It seemed like she was wearing a wig.           
        Street Jimmy finally showed up during the game. He looks terrible. He said the  reason he was AWOL was because he'd gone to suburban Harvey to see his brother. Unfortunately he couldn't remember where his brother lived. Since Jimmy's sister in law had a debilitating stroke and can no longer speak, he's had no contact with his family in three years. He looks as bad as I've ever seen him. When he said he was hungry I had Kim fix him a snack.

Saturday, February 6, 2016

Pub Crawl Liz Back From Mexico

          I didn't get home until quite late last night. The reason for my lateness was Pub Crawl Liz's return from Mexico. Because Liz is one-hundred-percent Mexican, her being in the sun for a week resulted in her arriving back home brown as a berry. The Defense Attorney and the Inventor were also sitting with me at the bar. The Defense Attorney's aptitude for drinking large qualities of alcohol is not good. After a difficult week of tussling in Federal courtrooms the alcohol she imbibes on Fridays contributes greatly to calming her normally frazzled nerves.
         We Hard-core Ale house regulars are accustomed to regale ourselves in a very simple and primitive manner, therefore, the conversation quickly turned to sex, and who was fucking who on our recent trip to Scotland. Although Pub Crawl Liz is a self-proclaimed lesbian, she readily acknowledges having banged a lot of guys in her younger days. This seemed to shock the Defense Attorney. When pressed the Defense Attorney would not place an exact number on how many women she's performed oral on. Personally, I think it's a lot easier being a lesbian than a male homosexual. Woman are much more attractive than men. Having participated in sports as a kid, I spent a lot of time in showers and locker rooms with naked boys and did not find any of them the least bit sexually enticing. They are a brutish, smelly lot, and dicks in particular are not the least bit attractive. 
         Liz promised to come to the condo today and help me get set up on my computer so that I can finally get started on book four. Book four, which I have entitled Fraud And Deception, will take place after I came back to Chicago from California in 1976. It will conclude with the birth of Gracie in 1984. Each book I write gets better than the previous one. When Anthony was in town shooting Parts Unknown I asked him to light a fire under our agent and try and get books two and three published. He promised that he would make an effort.
        Liz read Last Night At The Old Town Ale House while she was in Mexico with her wife, Bonnie. There's not very much sex in Last Night, but what there is seemed to fascinate Liz. The Defense Attorney indicated most disrespectfully that she has no interest in reading my marvelous book. No one has ever accused her of possessing even a shred of intellectual curiosity. Liz said she thought my book was terrific, and she couldn't put it down. She was especially sorry she never got to meet comedian John Fox or Fancypants who are both key characters in my book.
          Irish Chris was at the other end of the bar. The four of us are going to his drinking establishment, The Kaiser Tiger, the Monday after next. Chris had a  curling rink installed for the winter and Liz is itching to give it a try.
           When I get started on Fraud and Deception I'm not going to have as much time to spend on my blog. I can either cut it back to three days a week again, or make my blogs shorter. I'd love to hear from some of you as to what you'd prefer. Remember, no blogs on Sunday. Why, you ask? Because that when we all worship the baby Jesus. I have no strong views on tomorrows Super Bowl. I liked Carolina's coach Ron Rivera when he played for the Bears. He was also the defensive coach when the hapless Bears last went to the Super Bowl. The Bears head coach at the time, the comatose, brain-dead, bible-thumping Lovie Smith, did not like to play aggressively and fired Rivera after the season was over. Since then Lovie has been fired by both the Bears and Tampa Bay. Wouldn't it have been nice if the Bears front office was smart enough to fire Lovie and made Rivera head coach. That's not how the morons that run the Bears roll. Why can't the old hag that owns the Bears depart to the big skybox in the sky soon. A Bear fans prayer.
         On the other hand I hate Cam Newton, the star QB of the Panthers. I grew up watching guys like Dick Butkus and Walter Payton who were not only great players, but did not clown around like the Three Stooges on acid. I hate how pro football has descended into pro wrestling. Newton's antics would not have gone over well with the old-school players like Butkus and Nitchke. They would have beaten him like a red-headed step child. The more I think about it the more I hope Denver's defense brutalizes Newton. I know it's unlikely, but I need something to maintain my interest in the game. 
          See ya Monday.

Friday, February 5, 2016

On Being A Bachelor

           I am not a good shopper. I especially need to improve my grocery shopping. Although I have started making lists of items I need, they are not thorough lists. Because of my poor listing skills I find it necessary to walk up and down every isle in the store which is time consuming. I tend to not buy enough of certain items, and too much of others. I also forget stuff I bought when I put them in out of the way places in the refrigerator. I have to rely on people working in the stores to direct me on where things are. I'm definitely going to work on improving my shopping skills. 
         Buzz Kill posted an interview of Anthony Bourdain by some publication on my Facebook page. It must have been a written interview because Anthony's answers were too tight and well written to be off the top of his head. One thing he said that really caught my eye was how in a civilized society every man should know how to cook a few basic dishes. I'm paraphrasing : "If a woman is nice enough to come over to your pad and have sex with you, the least you can do is cook her an omelet in the morning." This seems more than reasonable. He also went on to suggest that everyone should know how to cook a steak, make a simple soup, and at least one pasta dish. 
        I wish I would have learned to cook. In my defense over the years every live-in girlfriend or wife I've had has been a good cook and so I never had to learn any of the culinary arts. Because I'm now flying solo I need to step up my bachelor game. One thing I've learned the hard way is not to let dirty dishes accumulate. It's much easier to wash them every day. Because I'm a natural born procrastinator with a one-track mind this is easier said than done. The same goes for laundry… Baby steps.


         Last night while I was talking to Lee and Anthony the Buxom Bibliophile walked in. Any doubts about my being smitten were instantly resolved. The minute our eyes met I fell into a swoon. Lee and Anthony were kind enough to move over so that she could sit down next to me. Over the years many remarkable characters have walked through the door of the Ale House; I put the buxom bibliophile right up there with the best of them -- and not just because she's hot! No, she is totally interesting and I thoroughly enjoy our conversations. She just had one beer because she had to pick up two of her girls from basketball practice. As I watched her walk out the door I asked myself why I couldn't have met someone like her 35 or 45 years ago. Double damn.


        The nose drops my doctor prescribed seem to be working.


         Street Jimmy continues to be surly and argumentative. He refers to Mierka as Mildred. When he walked into the bar this morning he was wearing a  pair of oversized sunglasses.
        "Jimmy, do you mind if I'm blunt and to the point?"
          "You are not a gay companion and I no longer enjoy your company."
          Scratching the top of his head with much irritability he said, "I ain't gay."
          "I don't mean gay gay, I mean you are no longer fun to be around." Adding by way of illustration, " the minute you walk in the door it's like I'm being overwhelmed by a dark, pestilent cloud…"
          "Wha' you mean,"he said tossing his bag on the padded bench.
           "You used to be a fun-loving, merry fellow. Now you're a churlish, whining, boorish- drag. Look at your face. You can barely keep your eyes open, you've developed a perpetual sneer, and crack has messed your throat up so bad I can barely understand a word you're saying."
          "I gots a lot on my mind."
           Although Tobin is vacationing, she left food for Jimmy. After he finished his sweeping chores I heated his food up. After I placed a spoon, napkin and paper cup of lemonade on the table he usually sits at, I brought him the plastic container of food.
         "Ya know Bruce, a meal ain't a meal without hot sauce."
         "I just gave you ten-bucks, run over to Walgreens and buy yourself a bottle."
          "I ain't gonna spend my work money on hot sauce when I can steal it from across the street."
           "Then you won't have hot sauce."
            Grimacing, "Tobi always give me hot sauce."
           "She doesn't mind going to the store, I do."
            When he was finished eating I said, "Okay, time to go."
          Putting his spoon down with much irritability, he turned to me and said angrily, "why you always be rushin' me?"
          "Because it takes you so fucking long to get dressed and I have shit to do."
           "What you got to do?"
            "I've got to go to the bank."
               While Jimmy put on his shoes he was mumbling incoherently. I assumed what he was muttering was aimed at me derisively. 


Thursday, February 4, 2016

Getting Up In The Morning

           I hope Trump doesn't implode after taking it up the ass from Cruz in Iowa. I like his defense: Cruz stole the election by sending out false reports that mumbling Uncle Tom Ben Carson was dropping out of the race. The Iowa hicks are historically gullible, as well as stupid, so they fell for the lie and switched their votes to Cruz. I would like an intrepid reporter to ask Cruz the following question: you profess to be a Christian every five-minutes, therefore, how do you reconcile being a Christian with lying about an opponent? 
        The reason I want Trump to persevere is because he does more damage to the Republican Party than all the Dems put together. He says out loud what the Party honchos  are thinking but are afraid to acknowledge. It may be further remarked that Ted Cruz has become the poster boy for the so called Evangelical retards. Like all Christian bible-thumpers, he's mean, nasty, duplicitous, bigoted, intolerant and hypocritical. And Cruz is proud that he is universally despised by his congressional colleagues. I find this refreshing. 
         The yahoos, red-necks, swamp-rats and KKK types don't need to have Confederate Flag decals on their pick up trucks anymore, a Trump or Cruz bumper-sticker tells the world everything they need to know about you.
         Carson response to being duped by the Cruz people was classic Carson: Speaking in one monotonous unbroken monotone flow, it was clear that he didn't give a rats-ass if anyone cared about what he was saying.
           Butcovich's special gal Mona, a union nurse, spent several days campaigning in Iowa for Bernie Sanders. I've always liked Bernie and I hope he keeps bitch-slapping Hillary until the convention. But let's be real, he's a 74 year old Jewish atheist as well as a self-proclaimed socialist. I don't know which is more abhorrent to Joe Six-Pack or Mary Fat-Ass, but I don't see a way around this. The Repubs will smear him and extend democratic socialist to mean communist. The atheist and Jewish problem might even be worse with these brainless shit-kickers.
           Hillary's email mess was so unnecessary and so typically Hillary. When Bill got caught getting his dick sucked by the 19 year-old intern I was pissed. Why play into the enemies hands. All he had to do is stick to broads like the late Eleanor Mondale, who was hotter than blabber mouth Monica, and knew how to keep her yap shut. In fairness to Bill, I don't care how politically ambitious you are, but going to bed with Hillary every night is more than a frisky man should ever have to bear. So Hillary stumbles on. If she becomes president, and I give her a sixty-forty chance given the quality of her Republican opposition, I hope that she ditches the goofy fake "I'm one of you" manner of emoting. She makes my skin crawl when she shrieks, "thank you Iowa" in that shrill, nasal voice of hers. Be who the hell you are, Hillary -- a mean, no-nonsense, I hate Republicans and will do everything I can to smear them in shit if I'm elected president, and above all I won't appoint another Nazi to the Supreme Court, and I swear on my grandchild that I will tackle global warming… Is that really too much to ask, Hillary?


            My doctor left the U of Chicago and opened a private practice in the West Loop recently. His plan is to be available 24-7 for his patients, and instead of in-and-out-of-the-office exams, he promises to take as much time as necessary. Yesterday I made my first visit to his fancy new digs. I was in his office for two-hours going over my entire medical history. Getting old isn't fun, and I'm going to need to see a couple of specialists for follow-ups. My back problem is presently my most vexing complaint. 
           When I tried to explain the amount of alcohol I consumed on a daily basis, he seemed perplexed.  Eyeing me sternly, he said, "two glasses of red wine a day should be your limit."
          With condescending politeness I explained that compared to my fellow barroom pals, I was practically a tea-toter, "I am alone much of the day, and sitting in a bar provides me with the necessary companionship and social life that is required to keep me mentally alert and prevent me from falling into black moods, and anti-social cynicism." 
         I think my doctor understands that I am not likely to lead a new life at this stage of the game, especially since it is evident that my old one will not continue for too much longer. I suppose some might think that my reasons for wanting to live a long life somewhat strange -- but then they don't understand me. My dying would simply make my myriad enemies too happy for me to succumb without a fight. My hatred toward these evil-doers is what gets me up every morning.
         Peace and love my friends, peace and love.