LET MY PIMP GO.....

Some have accused the Geezer of being unnecessarily cruel and harsh to politicians. That I have, at times, called them imbeciles and schlemiels as well as questioning their honesty and intelligence. Okay, I cop to feeling that way.

Perhaps it’s time for me to reexamine my opinion of the men and women who serve in Washington and most State capitals. Maybe I’ve had blinders on and haven’t given them a fair shake. There was that lady Senator from Idaho who authored a bill to let all government officials dress as rabbits; the distinguished Governor of a southern state who called for the death penalty for anyone caught waltzing with a clothing dummy; the member of the House who was convicted of trying to set his opponent on fire and stuff him headfirst down a smoking chimney; and, oh, hell, I could go on forever.

My new favorite idiotic politician is Sen. Charles Grassley, chairman of the tax-writing Senate Finance Committee. Grassley likes to portray himself as a plain-speaking, good old boy. He proudly boasts that he’s one of the few Senators who are not a lawyer. Normally that would be a positive attribute for anyone but in Charlie’s case the main reason he didn’t go to law school might be that he acts like he never graduated from elementary school.

Senator Grassley wants the tax-collecting Internal Revenue Service to chase pimps and sex traffickers with the same fervor it stalked Al Capone for tax evasion in the late 1920s. With all that is wrong with our country Grassley has decided the most important problem facing the U.S. is pimps. His proposed bill would hit pimps with fines and lengthy prison sentences for failing to file employment forms and to withhold taxes for the women and girls under their command. “Hey, Ho, fill out this W-4 or I’ll kick you ass!”

It would make certain tax crimes a felony when the evaded tax was on money that comes from criminal activity. “The thugs who run these street-corner bimbos are exploiting society’s poorest girls for personal gain,” Charlie said. “The IRS goes after drug traffickers. It can go after pimps.” I find it interesting that Grassley hasn’t gotten this worked-up with the corporations and wealthy people who evade paying taxes every year. Could it be that their K-Street lobbyists and campaign contributions to politicians has something to do with it?

“We need to simply treat pimps and massage parlor operators the way we would treat anybody who takes the proceeds of a customer transaction from somebody and the gives a fraction of it back,” he said. Senator, don’t most big businesses do that? Wouldn’t you love to watch as an IRS employee go up to a big, black ex-con wearing a fur hat, flashing more jewelry than you find in Vegas, standing there in a three thousand dollar maroon suit and leopard skin loafers and say, “Excuse me sir, but don’t you think it’s time you paid your fair share of income tax.” “Say what? Listen mothafu*** - get your skinny ass out of my face!!!!”

Grassley wants to put pimps out of business. Swell, but did the good Senator really think about the consequences of doing that? It would devastate and close the jewelry, clothing, luxury car and limo, gold teeth and fur hat industries. Grassley would do more to ruin our economy than Newt Gingrich ever did.

You know something I think my initial insulting comments and low opinion about politicians has just been proven. I rest my case!

STOP COMPLAINING!

Most men have a reoccurring nightmare, a fear that makes them shake like someone sitting on the third rail. It has nothing to do with things that go bump in the night. It’s worse than that. It’s the inability to perform. I’m not talking about doing a lousy impression of Jimmy Cagney or getting stage fright at some karaoke bar. It’s the terror of not being able to get it up anymore.

Men have adopted many names for their sex tool: “Johnson, Hebrew national salami, hammer, the big guy,” and my favorite, “the purple headed love machine.” Strangely, women don’t find it necessary to give a pet name to their ‘thing’. What most adult men dread is the possibility that the inches of flesh that hangs from their groin will one day be as useless as a wet noodle. Flaccid, soft, drooping, weak and as welcome as a severe heart attack.

To help when that unhappy day arrives males, all over the world, are spending hundreds of millions of dollars buying sex aids, pills and devices to help with erectile dysfunction. Levitra, Viagra, Endocrin, Cialis are a few of the more popular ones. Guys swallow them like they’re M&Ms…in the hope that on the rare occasion “the little woman” decides that sex might be permitted without causing her to upchuck he will be able to perform as he once could. Some desperate fellows even resort to having penile implants and penile pumps put in. All of these measures make pharmaceutical companies billions while issuing the warning that if an erection lasts more than 4-hours the customer should seek medical help. Christ, if every man I know found that his erection lasted 4 hours he would take an ad out in the local paper and star in his own infomercial.

Consider the case of a Providence, Rhode Island man who won more than $400,000 in a lawsuit over a penile implant that gave him a 10-year erection. 10-years of proudly walking around with “the big guy” in all his glory. This 68-year old received the steel and plastic implant in 1996, about two years before Viagra went on the market. The Dura-11 is designed to allow impotent men to position the penis upward for sex, the lower it. Kind of like a circumcised drawbridge.

But, this poor guy couldn’t position his penis downward. He said he could no longer hug people, ride a bike, swim or wear bathing trunks because of the embarrassment. He became a recluse, his lawyer said. “I don’t know any man who for any amount of money would want to trade and take my client’s life,” he continued. Me, Me, Me, Me…………..! The chutzpah of the guy, kvetching because he can’t get it down and The Geezer can’t get excited if he has a 16-year old lap dancer sitting on his shvance.

The company claims that nothing was wrong with the implant. One spokesperson hinted that aliens might have something to do with the screw-up. The ‘lucky fella’ can’t have the implant removed because of health problems, including open-heart surgery. Impotence drugs could not help even if he were able to have the device taken out, because tissue had to be removed for it to be implanted.

So, there he sits with his permanent erection trying to be useful. His wife hangs clothes on his penis to dry; he rents himself out as a pointer and has answered
the age old question, “are you just happy to see me or is that a flashlight in your pocket?”

JOB DESCRIPTIONS

One of the blessings about working for a living is the enjoyment the worker gets for “a job well done.” The acknowledgement of employers and coworkers that he or she is a professional at their craft. Gratifying pay is, of course, important as is pleasant working conditions…and an occasional blowjob from a foxy female employee.

The Old Geezer jests. However, the most important element in a working situation is pride in the job. The ability to boast about your vocation without fear that you will be laughed and scoffed at. Can you imagine hearing, “Oh, God, you actually do that for a living?” It would be enough to give anyone a skin rash that is usually found on lepers.

Many industries have come up with euphemisms for a job that might be a tad demeaning to the worker. The kind of things that sugar-coats a really low moral and low skill gig. If pride and self-esteem will allow the employee to work harder and do a better job – why not? A perfect example would be: if a Mafia thug using a baseball bat to collect late loans is suddenly called a “bone re-arranger.” Imagine how proud his family can be when they introduce him.

Singapore has taken the bull by the horn and mandated that all toilet cleaners are now to be called, “restroom specialists.” The idea is to boost status for the worker. To allow them to be proud of their job even though they might smell of urine and feces. “How was your day, sweetheart?” “It was quite agreeable, dear wife. I cleaned 100 toilets but after my ‘restroom specialist’s’ brush broke I used my tongue on the last 19.” See, how this new idea elevates a conversation?

I think this new uplifting of worker’s job descriptions is a good, sound idea. It’s tough to think of a profession that wouldn’t benefit from this ego boosting practice. Well, maybe politicians – there’s no way to camouflage the stink and derision that a politico deserves from society. Some of the words that come to mind are: low, mean, base, cowardly, contemptible, and worthless – and those are the positive expressions I can think of.

THERE ARE CROOKS IN PRISON.

Most people are disgusted with the state of sports around the world. Athletes, who in many cases can’t write their own names, are paid gigantic fees to do what they’d probably do for nothing. Millions and millions of dollars, pounds and drachmas – although the value of the drachma has gone down quicker than an exotic dancer in a Vegas strip club – for putting on some uniform and running around a stadium.

The scandals and thuggish behavior of these athletes has turned many fans off. Illegal steroid and growth enhancement use is commonplace. Spousal abuse is rampant, breaking laws and a feeling of “I’m an athlete so the rules don’t apply to me” seems to be the order of the day. No wonder NASCAR is fast becoming the most popular sport in America. No one has ever heard of a racing car using cocaine or beating up its wife. This allows red-faced, beer drinking patrons to sit around and watch souped up cars going round and round while breathing in enough pollution to collapse their lungs. If a racing fan is lucky he or she might see a car explode in flames and kill the driver…you know, clean, healthy fun.

Columnists and critics have often pointed out that overgrown, egocentric baseball, football and basketball stars get away with conduct that would land the average person in prison for life. That they’d learn their lesson behind bars. Well, maybe not……

Even prisons aren’t safe from cheating and dishonesty. Really? The Florida attorney general has just charged the Apalachee Correctional Institution with committing a crime. It seems they wanted to win the Florida Department of Corrections’ annual softball tournament so badly that they hired a former professional baseball player to play for the team. He was given a phantom job in a prison library but never showed up during the four weeks he was on the payroll. The southpaw was also paid $1,400 to help the Apalachee guards win the softball tourney.

The former Houston Astros’ minor league pitcher pleaded guilty to a theft charge and was ordered to repay the $1,400 and perform 50 hours of community service. “It is disturbing that a state agency would place so much importance on a team sport that will stoop to committing crimes,” said the attorney general.

To recap: Those who get upset with cheating and illegal behavior in big time sports have just had the rug pulled out from under us. The rug was probably stolen anyway. It’s tough to believe that you can find crooks in a prison. Nothing is sacred anymore.

CRIME STOPPERS.

Law enforcement has finally entered the 21st Century in their search for weapons to fight crime. I’m not talking about GPS, K-9, illegal wiretaps or “snitches” in order to arrest thugs. Those contrivances are as old fashioned as hippy headbands, pooka shell necklaces and wearing a derby to an orgy.

Cops today are hipper and are letting felons capture themselves. Authorities have found that their best tool in capturing fleeing criminals is today’s fashions. It seems the low-slung, baggy pants that moronic crooks insist on wearing trips them up every time.

Police everywhere are pointing to the “gangsta” look as their greatest ally in the war against crime. Low-hanging baggy pants have been a fashion statement for young men for about a decade. Over time, the tough-guy image associated with over-sized trousers helped make the look standard for hip-hop performers, gang-bangers and idiotic teens across the country.

The big problem for wannabe criminals is that those ill-fitting pants are not helpful while fleeing from law enforcement. What seems to be happening is that fleeing hooligan’s pants begin to slip down below their hips and more often than not wind up around their ankles – causing them to trip and fall on their asses much to the amusement of cops. So law-abiding citizens can thank the fashion industry for giving us a welcome edge in the fight against crime. It’s obvious that these pants are not good for running, jumping, climbing or skipping.

When asked by police why he didn’t wear a belt with his over-sized jeans one of the criminals thought for a moment and replied, “Belts are like uncool, dude.” Let’s all hope the schmuck enjoys his stay in the city lock-up and studies GQ magazine a lot.

CUGAT'S TURNING OVER IN HIS GRAVE.

Violence has become a fact of life all over the world. We can’t pick up a newspaper, turn on TV, and listen to radio…without being aware of violence: shootings, muggings, and stabbings and in certain rough gay neighborhoods the occasional drive-by slapping.

Many social scientists point to television programming as the cause. Others suggest that movies foster the incidents of mindless brutality all around us. There is a growing legion of experts who believe that the hours spent by our youth playing video games are a root cause. There certainly seems to be many suspects to blame in the increasing thoughtless blood-letting all around us.

According to Talmudic scholars violence has always been with us. Prehistoric accounts of senseless murders were commonplace among the Pharisee sects in ancient Egypt. One of the most famous was when Moise, the elder, beat the matzo out of Shloimy, the dwarf, for having sex with his pet phoenix. When the Dead Sea Scrolls were finally unearthed they found among the pages a list of the FBI’s ten most wanted pious hooligans.

It’s always interesting when you read about a violent act that comes as a complete surprise. Something so outrageous that it boggles the mind. It didn’t involve the ordinary gun, knife, garrote or poison – those would be too mundane to warrant putting down our copy of “The Assassin’s Handbook.” No, I mean something that raises the hair on our necks – and if you don’t have hair on your neck, find a hairy substitute…the Geezer can’t do everything for you.

Give a kook. St. Louis is a city that has its fair share of violent crimes. But, a 33-year old woman resident has entered the Geezer’s List of Crackpot Criminals – what did she do that was so meritorious to make that singular list? It seems that she purchased a Chihuahua puppy from a female breeder. No big deal, eh? Xavier Cugat could have done the same many times. However, when this woman took the puppy to a veterinarian he said it was only 4-weeks old and needed to return to its mother. But before she could return the puppy named Chloe, it died.

Our defendant went to the breeder’s home, pushed her way inside and began fighting with the breeder as she tried to make her way to the basement to get another puppy. She was charged with trespassing and third-degree assault. Her weapon of choice turned out to be Chloe – this irate woman began to pummel the breeder over the head with the dead Chihuahua. The victim said she was hit at least 30 times with the puppy and sustained some bruises and a ruined hair-do.

The breeder also was upset that her attacker had accused her of selling the puppy too young – she claims it was two days shy of 6 weeks old. But being a good sport agreed to return the $100 that her attacker had paid for the dog.

I don’t know about you but trying to brain somebody with a Chihuahua is pretty damn cool. Let forensics try to solve that case. It’s the perfect crime and I expect the mafia to stop using 38-specials and start using Yorkies during mob hits.

JACK TO THE RESCUE!

Language is a wonderful way to communicate. It beats synchronized swimming or trying to communicate with a band of mutes. Words are very descriptive and convey thoughts and feelings in a split second.

For instance when you hear someone referred to as having the personality of an old inner sole you don’t want to spend too much time and money on them. If a man is known as a “schmuck with earlaps” don’t allow your daughter to date him. If a woman is alluded to as having more positions in bed than the average politician does on an issue – send me her name. Like I said language is colorful.

When you hear the phrase, “Oh, he’s a pussycat,” your first thought probably is that he’s an easy-going, laid back, kind individual. Normally you’d be right but not in the case of a pussycat living in West Milford, New Jersey. This pussycat is named Jack, and is meaner than a kid who wakes up and finds his parrot has been made Secretary of Agriculture.

How mean is Jack? Funny you should ask. Jack is a 15-pound orange and white cat, who keeps a close vigil on his property, often chasing small animals out of his backyard. “He’s very territorial,” said his owner. “He doesn’t want anybody in his yard including us.” Neighbors call Jack “The Terminator!” They don’t need a Neighborhood Watch or private security cars patrolling the streets. Any sign of trouble and they let Jack loose.

This furry Hannibal Lecter got really annoyed when a black bear sauntered into his backyard. Jack didn’t hesitate or consider the danger – he just ran the dangerous beast up a tree. He just looked up at the bear hissing at it. I guess the bear realized that he was giving bears a bad name and when Jack turned his head the bear scampered down the tree and started to run away. “Come back you wussy,” Jack must have hissed and ran the black bear up another tree. The large treed animal began to whimper and whine and finally Jack’s owners called Jack off. The relieved bear scurried back into the woods to warn off any of his relatives. “You can go anywhere but stay away from that Jack – he’s worse than Darth Vader.

Bear-sightings are not unusual in West Milford, which experts consider one of the state’s bear-populated areas. Not any more, bubba. If bears have cell-phones they’re probably on the horn with Bekin’s moving their stuff to another county. Jack takes all this hoopla in stride – just hoping that the Hell’s Angels decide to visit the area. He’ll turn those hog-riding criminals into pussy-cats.

THE LAP OF LUXURY

For those of you planning one of those fabulous vacations to the south of France, Hawaii, the Greek Islands or a cruise to Alaska – hold on. Cancel the bloody trip. As another public service the Old Geezer suggests you save those thousands. Forget staying at some dreary 5-Star hotel and eating yourself to fat heaven which Lord knows you don’t need. How does a vacation close to tranquil waters which includes cross-country skiing, tennis and horse-riding and gourmet meals sound which will cost you bupkis – nada – zippo – your stay is free of charge?

Not too shabby, eh? This vacation wonderland is offered to the few lucky people sent to Bastoy Prison in Norway. Yup! Not only will you stay near an Oslo fjord but think of the fun of breaking bread with rapists, murderers, drug traffickers and politicians who accepted large bribes. “We try to take a cross-section of the country’s prison population, not just nice criminals,” said Oyvind Alnaes, governor of the minimum security prison on Bastoy Island about 46 miles south of the Norwegian capital. Hell, even disgraced former congressman Duke Cunningham would be envious. Ken Lay and Jeffrey Skilling would give millions of their Enron stock for a “suite” in this luxurious clink. This place makes Club Med look like a slum in Calcutta.

Inmates have included Norway’s most notorious serial killer and a hooker that was convicted of having sex with a large mouth bass. “A lot of people in Norway say that we treat prisoners too well because they should be punished. But that is the biggest mistake we have been making since the 1600s. Treating them roughly makes people bad.” Go figure. The one square mile island offers its 115 “residents” luxury living including tennis and horses pulling sleighs over packed snow but only they put in a few hours working on the farm. “We want to become the first ecological prison in the world,” said the daffy warden.

I urge you to forget that petty murder you were going to commit, the embezzlement of your church’s poor box or any other dastardly crime you were thinking of – fly to Norway and do it there. Just think an all expense vacation and you won’t have to bang on any bars to get your herring on brown bread and schnapps served on the finest Norwegian china. “It’s okay here,” said one prisoner. “They have cable TV and it gives you time to think and reflect and, of course, I enjoy the sleigh rides. It’s much calmer here, we have a great sea view and it’s only 150 meters to the beach.”

Hell’s bells this truly is a place where you can do the crime and serve the time standing on your head...although it isn’t advised during a soft-packed snow storm. The choice is yours – Pelican Bay or Bastoy Prison? Call your travel agent now!!!

BARRY MANILOW IS MY HERO.

One of the most embarrassing things for any person or product to be called is “a joke.” To be an object of derision and ridicule is not something to be sought after unless you’re running for political office. In that case it goes with the territory.

There have been many categories of so-called “jokes.” It can be animal, vegetable or mineral…or like Sam Donaldson’s hair – an unknown. Michael Dukakis and Dan Quayle were jokes. Urkle – remember him? He was that idiotic black TV teen who spoke like he had someone’s tongue in his ear at all times. Doogie Howser was a “joke” television series that fortunately was cancelled before too many viewers could gag it down. Tiny Tim was a “joke” as is Richard Simmons in his tutu. Nehru jackets and Chia pets fall under that category, also.

For years Barry Manilow has been the poster boy as an entertainment industry joke. Something about him makes people laugh even though he really is a terrific entertainer. Perhaps it’s his look…the silly blonde hair, sparkly suits and his fawning behavior? Some have even suggested that he might be light in his loafers. I think that’s a bad rap and caused only when he’s standing side by side with his pal Bette Midler. Hell, next to the “Divine Ms. M” the same could be said about most NFL linemen.

Manilow has had many gold and platinum records. His songs sell by the millions and the money he makes as a composer would even impress an Arab Sheik. He has his own show in Vegas which is sold out and his tours always are cash cows. In spite of all that the success, Barry is still thought of as a musical performing abnormality. Many men and women roll their eyes and begin to twitch uncontrollably at the mere mention of Mrs. Manilow’s son.

Sydney, Australia has been plagued with the noise of souped-up cars with loud engines and pulsing music. The city has decided to allow Barry Manilow to solve this problem as if he rode into town on his loyal steed. They are going to pipe Barry’s music over loudspeakers in an attempt to rid streets and car parks of hooligans whose anti-social cars and loud music annoy residents and drive customers from businesses. City authorities believe that Manilow’s music is so uncool that it will make these “hoons” or hooligans flee faster than a division of Italian soldiers during WW-2.

“Daggy music is one way to make these undesirables stay away from populated areas because they’ll get sick to their stomach’s hearing Barry sing, ‘Copacabana’,” said one official. The Oxford Australian Dictionary defines “daggy” as unfashionable, or lacking style, even eccentric or stupid.

So there you are. One person’s joke is another person’s hero. Barry Manilow is a latter day Superman, Batman and Bat Masterson rolled into a sequined jump suit. He may look strange and sing funny to many but to Sydney, Australia he’s the cat’s meow which is about as hip as Barry’s songs.

DON'T PRAY.

Most of us grew up inundated with cliché sayings. Things like: easy as pie, many hands make light work, there’s no place like home, the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence – and my all time favorite: a bird in the hand makes a happy degenerate.

There are a couple of more sayings that come into play in this story. “Don’t fool with Mother Nature” and “Beware of what you wish for.” Have you ever wonder where these trite and silly sayings come from? Where they coined by boring people with nothing else to do? Where they suppose to make us comfortable and ease our burdens? Can it be that they were actually to teach us something? If that is the case how do you explain the famous cliché, “When something is coming your way, you’re in the wrong lane?”

Ever hear of Daphne, Alabama? It’s the twin city of Yetta, Ala. Well, a 65-year old woman living in Daphne got smited for praying during a strong thunder storm which raged through Baldwin County. It seems she worried about her family who were away on a trip to the beach. So she stood in her kitchen and prayed for their safe return. It’s not clear if she was worried because they didn’t take umbrellas or that their convertible top couldn’t go up and that they might drown in their 1956 Chevy. She claims that she had just ended her prayer with an “Amen,” when the room was engulfed in a huge ball of fire and she was knocked off her space shoes onto the floor, dazed and disoriented by the blast. “I’m blessed to be alive even though my corn muffins in the stove are blacker than Satan’s heart.”

She was hit by a bolt of lightning that apparently struck outside and traveled into the house. She doesn’t know how much time passed while she remained disoriented on the floor before her 14-year-old granddaughter, discovered her after returning from the beach. “I was just standing there when a huge ball of fire swept through the room. I don’t remember much after that although maybe aliens took me up to their space ship and made me tell them how to do the hucklebuck,” she said.

Fire officials speculate that lightning likely struck across the street and traveled into the house through a water line. Either that or the woman might be possessed since neighbors claim that she has a long tail and refuses to communicate with them except with signal flags.

The conclusion one must make from this dubious story is that never pray when you’re standing in a bucket of water and holding a Callaway three-iron during a thunderstorm.