A 101 Year Old Marathon Runner Discovered The Secret Behind Limitless Energy!!!

You think I’m going to tell you? Get the hell out of here!

Yeah, I read the story. Marathon runner! A hundred and one, with my prostate every piss is a marathon.

Did I discover something? How would I know? I can’t remember what day it is. Where the hell am I?

Look, lady, I’m trying to run here. See that peak? I’m heading up there now. Say, what’s wrong with you? You’re panting like my spaniel.

These questions about what I eat and drink, what is that? Who cares what I eat and drink? For one thing, I’ve got no teeth. I haven’t been able to taste in years. My wife, when she’s mad at me, she could be feeding me ca ca, pardon my French.

She’s a hundred and fifteen, my wife. Don’t talk to her about my energy. All she cares about is my lack of energy. In the noodle, you understand, and I’m not talking about my head.

That’s her up there. Almost to the top of the peak. She runs ahead so she can get back and cook my dinner, God knows what that might be.

All my family runs. Hers too. My mother was running when I was born. She dragged me behind her by my umbilical cord. Don’t ask me if the placenta is a magic energy food. Remember, I didn’t have teeth back then, either.

You know that saying, the one about not getting old? It was a guy in his nineties said that. What the hell did he know? When I was ninety, I was… I was… What were we talking about? Why are you stopping? You’re gasping like a guppy. We’re no higher than twelve thousand feet or so.

Look, I can’t stop. Come for dinner.


At the register, I took out my checkbook and driver’s license.

“Sorry, Ma’am,” said the checkout clerk. “Cash, credit, or debit. We don’t take checks anymore.”

“But I always pay by check,” I said.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t carry cash. I don’t own a credit card.”

“What about a bank card?”

“I’ve forgotten its PIN.”

“Lady, lots of stores don’t take checks anymore. Checks are dying out. They’re too easy to bounce. Get yourself a credit card. Get your PIN reset.”

“But what about now? You’ve already checked me out. This is my dinner. The banks are closed.”

I pointed at the BOA counter to the right of the front doors. The lights were off behind it.

“You could try the Cash and Carry,” the clerk said.

“That’s on the other side of town. I’m on foot. You needed to warn us in advance about this.”

“Do you have any cash at home?”

He was just a kid but he was trying to help.

“Is your manager here?” I said.

The boy looked around.

“He’s over in produce,” he said.

I walked over to produce. The manager wore a name tag. Harold Brown. He had some gray in his hair. I explained my predicament.

Mr. Brown walked with me back to the register and we waited for the boy to finish with the customer he was ringing up. My groceries were back in a cart behind him.

“Tom,” said the manager, “we’ll take a check this time.”

“Thank you,” Tom said, relieved. He bagged the groceries and settled the bags in the cart.

“Thank you both,” I said. “Tomorrow I’ll go and make arrangements for a credit card and a new PIN for my bank card.”

We all parted friends.

Man Swallows Severed Human Toe At Bar, Drops Mic, Skips Town

[headline, Huffington Post]

It’s not as bad as it sounds. What I learned: don’t go to the karaoke bar and drink heavily in the middle of an argument with your girlfriend.

I had promised Kathy Sue that I’d put our marriage nest egg in the bank but it was still riding around in the back of my van in a tin cookie box. Since Kathy Sue had earned all the money, she objected to the fact that I couldn’t even make the effort to go to the bank and deposit it.

“You’re taking laziness to a whole new level,” she said.

I couldn’t argue. I’m lazy by nature. But Kathy Sue was up to arguing for the both of us.

And by the way, when did “mike” turn into “mic”? Isn’t that, well, a little girly?

So we went to the Hula Hut and sniped at each other while drinking something called Hut Hooch. When it came time for me to sing, I chose “You Light Up My Life,” but when I got to the part where I go “Finally a chance to say Hey, I love you, never again to be all alone…,” I was looking over at Brenda Poltz, or, actually, down her front, and it set Kathy Sue off.

We had exchanged toe rings for our engagement – you can see where this is going – because Kathy Sue is convinced she has knobby knuckles and doesn’t want to call attention to them. On this occasion, she pulled out the pig sticker that she carries in her purse, pushed up the to stage, leaned over, and cut off my toe, the one with the ring on it. I was wearing flip-flops.

She pulled the ring off the toe, glared at me, and swallowed it.

“I’m flushing you out of my life,” she shouted at me. “Just like I’m going to do with this ring when it comes out again.”

Then she threw my toe at me. I caught it and just to spite her or match her or something, I popped it into my mouth and swallowed it.

Out in my van, I was just arriving at the hospital to get the toe stump sewed up when I realized that I still had the nest egg. Actually, it was more money than I’d had in years, it seemed like, so I tied my handkerchief around my foot, stuffed the foot into its work boot, and just kept on going.

Training the Palate

My first entry on Typetrigger, a fun site. The challenge: write a quick piece including the word “spammer.”

Before we married, my husband had to agree to let me civilize him, starting on day one. Otherwise, no go.

I love the man, but when we met, he was a barbarian. Did not change his underwear or socks on a daily basis. Emerged from the bathroom with his hands still dry. Never used a washcloth.

He’s a lovable lug, but really.

Now, after a year of wedded bliss, he is much improved. When he gets up in the morning (after me), he makes the bed. He shaves every morning. He’s cleaner all around.

He says Yes Ma’am and No Ma’am. He opens the door for me. He says please.

At table, he is learning, slowly, to appreciate good food. The first time I served him Eggs Benedict, he stared at the plate, uncomprehending. Ditto my merest excursions into gastronomy, via, for example, veal scallopine with asparagus. My husband’s gustatory tastes (if that is not redundant) remain of the most basic sort, and whereas he readily took to my requests for cleanliness and organization, he has resisted my attempts to educate his palate.

Last night, I placed before him roasted artichoke with chipotle aioli, as a starter.

His visage grew petulant.

“Tonight I want Spam,” he said.

“My dear,” I said, “that’s quite impossible.”

“No,” he said. “I want it.”

” But I’ve made Parmesan pumpkin dumplings.”

“Not tonight,” he said. “It’s Spammer nothing.”

Guaranteed Weight Loss: No Dieting Necessary

Why do diets fail? Because you want to eat! It’s only natural.

Civilization is set up to feed you. Your culture surrounds you with good things to eat. You’ve got to be sick in the head to ignore the blandishments of the food industry. You’ve got to be mentally ill, literally, to lose that blubber. You’re not a fat slob; you’re a child partaking of the fruits of humanity’s evolution toward perfection.

Nonetheless, there is nothing wrong with wanting to be thin. And there is nothing wrong with acting upon this desire.

But not by dieting, for cryeye. Want to end up in an asylum? Go check out your local mental facility. A lot of thin dudes in there!

What are the alternatives? Surgical intervention? Lipo? Medication?

Friend, your body is a temple, not a lab rat. Only God above should be allowed to mess with it. Do you want some money-grubbing sawbones mucking around inside your digestive tract or sucking your essence out from under your skin with a garden hose? I don’t think so.

Which is where the Inner Me Institute comes in.

Park out front. Come in. Tell us how many pounds you want to lose (forty minimum, three hundred maximum). Let us run your credit card and confirm that your payment clears.  Step into one of our private treatment rooms. Change into a tieback hospital gown. Lie down on a comfortable treatment table and let one of our friendly young service techs intubate you. In the blink of an eye, as it seems, you’ll wake up thinner. As thin as you want (and have paid for).

No angst. No drugs (except for the one that knocks you out and keeps you under). You’ll just lie there with enough water flowing into one of your veins to keep you alive.

“When are you going to begin?” you’ll ask when you wake up. You won’t even know that days or weeks or months have passed, until you stand in front of a mirror (with our help) and behold your new self.

One of the young techs will drive you home in your car. Go inside when you get there, accept the admiring stares of your family, and eat something (some vomiting may occur).

When the weight returns, come right on back!

Haikus about Winter


sunset comes sooner
in november. perversely
all the clocks turn back.


if i were a bird
i would fly south with the flock
on the first gray day


snow on the front walk
cold heavy obtuse. hill snow?
friendly fluffy fun


summer my cat sleeps
eighteen hours. when winter comes
he adds a few naps.


caught on the mountain
the sky suddenly gray. white flakes
drift down, quiet death.


red blood on new snow.
fox and rabbit, teeth tear flesh,
cold reclaims warm life.


black sky silver moon
white rolling hills bright lit, their
shadows in gray shade


used to have winter
on this dazed greenhouse planet.
they say it was “cold.”


Claus at the North Pole
sits grumpy in his work shed
now on a big boat.


snowshoe hare, box lunch
for marten,owl, and eagle,
still a happy dad.


distant avalanche
powdered sugar tumbling down
taking trees with it


gray skies. can’t get up.
cold air. no sun. can’t get up.
don’t ask. can’t get up.


evolution is
exchanging thick fur body hair
for gloves hats and coats?


apocalypse done
snowflakes drift down poisoned black
snow drifts now ashes


i want to wear tees
not layers against the air.
i’ll move farther south.


4 Haikus about Nature


sprawling shopping malls,
cars on wide asphalt freeways,
forest. it’s all nature.


two hundred million years
from now perhaps humans will
have evolved again


scented cat litter
forest pine woods aroma
not for city kitties


nature builds up and
wears down. child grows up slow and
grown, wears slowly down.

Police: Spy Likely Died Naked In Gym Bag By Accident

My husband? Yes, he was a spy. He loved his country, enough to sneak around and snitch on folks like a rat. That’s how patriotism has got to be sometimes. Like that time when I was in the bathroom trying to… Never mind. Suffice it to say, my husband was a spy 24×7.

When he first became homeless, after I forgot my own love of country and lost my head and kicked him out of the house, he lived in a cardboard box in the back yard. Outside the bathroom window, now that I think of it. A nice big cardboard box.

You see where I’m going with this.

Fact: The gym bag was waterproof. Important during the rainy season.

Fact: My husband, technically, wasn’t naked, as he had one of my merry widows wrapped around him, though not fastened.

Should you try to make coffee or fry an egg in a gym bag? In retrospect, no. Wait for the rain to stop and build a little campfire in the dog run. Begging at the back door won’t do any good, storm or no storm. And move the damn bag away from the down spouts. Show some common sense.

Plus, anyone who tries to climb a ladder while in a gym bag, to peek in a window during a raging storm, deserves whatever befalls him.

Fact: The old scarring on his body was, yes, caused by accidents, him being a clumsy guy, though wait, the big one on his forehead was another example of me being unpatriotic.

Fiction: Drago and Dajbog (our pit bulls) would not attack a man for taking their food. Well, yes they would, but probably not my husband. The wounds seemed too deep and ragged to be inflicted by squirrel or skunk, but a raccoon could have done it. As for an opossum, I don’t know.

Was I responsible for my husband’s death in any way? No. But just in some cosmic case I need to make restitution, I’ve signed up for a yoga class at Gold’s and I’m going to carry my leotard to it in the gym bag, once the bag is released by the police and thoroughly cleaned.

Protester Nails Testicles To Red Square Cobblestone

Screw or nail? The perennial – or perineumal – question.
Are screws ever better than nails when working with cobblestones? Say you used screws instead of nails to secure the scrotum, whereas those in the protest or torture or crucifixion business specifically called for nails. Would the result be inferior? Could it fail inspection if your neopagan coven high priestess graded your work? Would nails absolutely be preferable in this instance? Are there any rules of thumb, or other parts, about when to use screws vs. nails?

Well, a screw is a superior fastener over a nail (it has far superior tensile strength), especially if you’re talking about screwing down a major body part. However, there are scenarios where a nail is the proper fastener, as for a nose or ear or other fleshy protuberance or appendage (attaching a hand to a foot for example—screws are brittle and will fail when subjected to the forces of a shear-loaded application).

So, you should use nails to attach the scrotum to the cobblestones but use screws to fasten down the penis itself.

Your normal wood screws are not useful here. Sports surgeons, when screwing plates to bones and so forth, never use wood screws. Standard screws are brittle. If you take a normal screw and drive it part way in and whack it with a hammer, it will snap. If you do this with a nail, the nail will bend. Which would you rather have holding your scrotum down? Something that bends but stays intact or something that can snap? On the other hand, if you miss the nail with the hammer, you could squash a testicle.

I mostly use screws to temporarily hold a body part in place while I nail it down. However, on one protest I used a ton of structural screws. A couple of times a head would snap off when I was driving it in, and three of them snapped when a small circular saw I was using on my toes hit a brick. While undoubtedly considerably stronger than normal screws, this leads me to question their shear resistance.

By the way, hex bolts and lag bolts also work well on those scrota with excess skin in the sack. Structural screws are just easier than bolting and cooler than nailing. I love using them, but they can’t (and shouldn’t) completely replace traditional fasteners.

A few more thoughts. Screws can be easily removed. You never know when you’ll need to get up and go to the bathroom. Removing nails may lead to damaging your genitals. Screws are much easier to control. Whether using a hammer or nail gun, exact placement of a nail is almost impossible, especially if you’re overweight or working on the bottom of the sack.

Important point: screws will not pull down a ball sack nearly as tightly as a nail will. If you have a twisted sack or a sack with lumps, a screw is pretty much useless.

Screwing down the scrotum also creates large holes for water to soak into and rot the balls much faster. Using a 3-inch galvanized nail and nailing it flush will pull the skin tighter versus sinking through the tissue. The sack will last longer (same concept as pinning back your ears).And last but not least, come on guys, a nail looks better.

Screws also tend to be slightly thicker than nails (because of the threads) so you would probably want to watch out for splitting of the skin and might want to drill pilot holes if you switch to screws.

Finally, not to lower the tenor of the conversation, but rather to lighten the mood, let me remind you that you use your male genitalia to screw with… but also to nail a woman with. The debate continues!

I’ll post the pictures for this DIY project on Instagram.

Dog Brings Home Human Leg

Milojica is a black flat-coated retriever. Last summer I trained him for a month to find and retrieve wallets. No luck. Now he brings home a leg.

I tossed the leg in the freezer in the garage and posted an item on craigslist. Nobody wanted the limb, not even, evidently, its owner.

It’s a male leg, or that of an exceptionally hirsute, muscular female. No polish on the nails. A little lint between the toes. (The leg has a foot on one end.)

There is a small tattoo above the ankle – two Chinese characters, taken together meaning “Huizhou tamale.”

Next day I took the leg out of the freezer, let it thaw, and had Milojica sniff it once or twice. Between his nose and bringing the thing home in his mouth in the first place, he had to have its scent firmly embossed upon his canine brain. I led him out the front gate, aimed him down the road, and said “Fetch.” Slapped his rump to get him going. He sped away, down the street and into the woods.

“Will he bring back the other one?” said my daughter Jasna.

I shrugged. While we waited, I went inside and posted a picture of the leg on Facebook. Friends registered many Likes (trolling spam) but no Wants. Well, one want, but for totally inappropriate reasons.

On Twitter I posted “What to do with my leg?” As I have no followers, no one responded.

Milojica returned empty-mouthed. He trotted into the open garage and sat down whining in front of the freezer.

“That is not your personal chew toy,” I said.

“Aw, Dad, please?” said my son Javor.

“We don’t let the cats toy with the birds they catch,” I said. “This is the same thing.”

“Well, can we play with it?” Jasna said.

“No you cannot,” I said. “Stay out of the freezer or I’ll give you a good thrashing.”

In the dark of night, though, with Milojica at my side, I took out the leg myself, and warmed it with a hair dryer. I can’t say why, but I had sentimental feelings for it. Perhaps it reminded me of my father’s leg. Or poor Yorick’s.

The leg went all the way up, but stopped just before it would have got, you know, weird.