Butterfly Dreams (47)

(A sequel to The Strange Story of Mr. Black and Ms Gray.)

They had died when helping thwart a plan to undermine the government of the United States. Now Ben and Susan have returned from the dead and they must bring that government down. Standing in their way are Michael Black and Michelle Gray, the bodies of whom they now occupy.

-(The Story begins HERE)-

Executive Decision

I was no more surprised than the others when the President stepped into the room. Clad in jeans and a polo shirt Vincent T. Addams' attire was not exactly becoming of that of a world leader.

His eyes hidden by dark sunglasses beneath the bill of a baseball cap, it was obvious that he was traveling incognito and his presence was unofficial. Unlike most Presidential excursions, there would be no press coverage of this trip.

At first he gave little regard to us but spoke directly to the officer standing at unwavering attention by the door. "Colonel Wingate, have your men escort these two FBI agents out of here. They do not have the security clearance to hear anything that will be said here."

Agent Landers stepped forth, "Mr. President, we were assigned to investigate a possible threat to you. Why are we being held?"

His reply was terse, "There is no longer a threat. Your investigation is complete. You will meet with my security detachment to be debriefed."

"But, Mr. President," Ferrara protested, "we have not yet received orders from the director to shut down."

With an air of annoyed arrogance President Addams walked over to the agent and studied him for a moment. He then pressed the bill of his cap against the man's forehead and said, "I see that you are familiar with the concept of the chain of command, agent. You obviously answer to the Director of the FBI, James Saunders." He took a step backward and grinned, "Well, Saunders answers to me."

Realizing his exchange with the President was finished, he nodded and lowered his head in silent defeat. The two agents offered no resistance as a pair of armed airmen led them from the room.

Removing his opaque glasses he addressed those of us who remained, "You'll have to pardon the ... ah ... casual appearance, gentlemen. As for my unannounced arrival here at this base, it never happened. For the record, I'll be at Camp David for a few days of rest with a touch of the flu."

"So, Mr. President," Professor Jordan said with measured sarcasm, "is it safe for us to assume that we weren't here either ... for the record?"

Addams removed his cap and ran his fingers through his wavy hair. He ignored Jordan's query and glared at him. "Professor Jordan, I have to admit that I underestimated you. How is that Bishop King's lackey could cause me so much grief? Clever, very clever and, I might add, quite timely of you to move Rosie Gates when you did."

I spun around and faced the professor, "You? You were behind that?" Rage turning my face beet red I grabbed the lapels of his jacket, "Where is she? What did you do with her?"

"Back off, Mr. Black," Wingate said stepping between us and pushing me aside, "If he knew, he certainly wouldn't be telling you in the presence of me or the President."

Addams cleared his throat and grumbled, "What am I going to do with you, Jordan? You've really caused me one hell of a P.R. mess! The spin doctors will be working overtime to fix it."

"Good luck to them," Jordan grinned, "trying to explain to the public how the man who died trying to assassinate you is alive and well and is out there kidnapping people."

I was impressed how both men were able to verbally spar with one another and yet maintain their dual personae. While Jordan knew that the mind of the deceased Julius Gates occupied the mind of President Vincent Addams, I wondered if Gates suspected that the late Bishop King's mind had been supplanted into that of the professor.

"Resurrecting Ben Bering and his girl friend, Susan Parsons ..." Addams mused aloud, "...it never occurred to me that they might have had twin siblings. Yes, it was quite clever of you to unleash the Persephone drones."

"Drones?" I gasped. "Susan and Ben ... are drones?"

The President faced me and grinned, "Ah, Mr. Black! It would appear that King has kept you in the dark. He left you and your wife his company and his vast fortune, but not all of his secrets. Apparently in some matters, he chose to confide instead with the good professor here."

Jordan flashed a defiant grin, "I'd say that it was a good thing that he did just that!"

"That you would say, professor, that you would. However, I have at my disposal a few men who are quite adept at extracting information from those who are less than cooperative," Addams chortled.

"Unless I'm mistaken," asserted Baxter, who'd been quiet until that moment, "water boarding has been outlawed."

Addams spun around and pointed a finger at him, "You! You've been one god damned thorn in my side! Don't think for a minute that you're going to escape a very lengthy and intense interrogation session."

"Speaking of the interrogations, Mr. President," said Wingate, "shall I prepare the neuro-headsets now?"

"That's affirmative, Colonel," he replied. He looked Jordan in the eyes and added, "On your way out send my security team here and have them bring the O'Day woman."

"No!" Jordan barked. "Leave her out of this. She doesn't know anything."

"How quaint," Addams countered. "Your paternal instincts betray your gruff exterior. She doesn't know anything? My dear professor, she's in this up to her eyeballs."

"So, it's come to this," I said, "the President of the United States is going to give the order for the torture of a helpless woman?"

"Give the order? No, Mr. Black, that I'm going to handle myself," Addams responded flashing a toothy smile. "Let's just call it an executive decision."

The door swung open and Faye, her hands bound, stumbled into the room. Two men in dark suits with guns drawn marched in behind her. I arched my eyebrows as I gazed upon their faces. They were the same two men who had been pursuing myself and Michelle on the Northeastern University campus two days earlier.

"What's the meaning of this?" Faye screeched.

Addams waved an open hand at the nearest secret serviceman. Nodding the man placed his gun in his commander's hand and stepped aside. The President deftly cocked the weapon and raised it in the direction of the woman.

"It means, Mrs. O'Day, that it was you who leaked the information about Operation Butterfly Blue," Addams growled. "I am at a loss as to why would you tell Colonel Wingate where Rosie Gates was located and then turn around and reveal our plans to the professor."

"Rosie's my sister!" she whimpered. "I thought I could trust the colonel. He said he'd make sure she remained safe."

"Thinking never was one of your strong suits, Faye," he sniped.

The next sound was the thunderous crack of the pistol as his finger squeezed the trigger.

( To be continued

Synaptic Siege )

№ 2095

An App a Day Keeps the Priest Away

Bless me iPhone for I have sinned.

I'm not a Catholic, but I portray a husband married to one in real life. In that role I have found some of the Catholic Church's ways of doing things strange. Of course, that is because I wasn't brought up Catholic. I never converted, but honored my wife's wishes that our daughter be brought up in that faith.

This news has REALLY given me pause to vigorously scratch my head and say "what the ... heck?"

Said Patrick Leinen of the company Little iApps based in South bend Indiana, "Our desire is to invite Catholics to engage in their faith through digital technology. Taking to heart Pope Bendict XVI's message from last year's World Communications Address, our goal with this project is to offer a digital application that is truly 'new media at the service of the world.'"

Although it has been sanctioned by the Catholic Church in the United States, it is not designed to replace going to confession but to help Catholics through the act, which generally involves admitting sins to a priest in a confessional booth. They will still have to go a priest for absolution.

The Catholic Church has sanctioned an app that allows its faithful to confess their sins via iPhone! Interesting that the Church still admonishes birth control, but yet is willing to embrace a technology that would allow someone to be sitting on a bar stool and text a confession. Who would've ever thought that a pub could one day serve as a confessional booth?

I can almost visualize some man's possible text or tweeter confessions:

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I lusted for the cocktail waitress."

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I have committed adultery with a girl I met at a bar.

Women would want to use this app too.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I picked up that stud bartender and slept with him last night."

I wonder, what kind of absolution would a priest give to those confessions? Forgive me, for I couldn't help this:

"Have two Bloody Marys and sin no more."

What other technology might the church accept next? Automated Confession Booths?

Well, how can I poke fun at a Confession iPhone app with out posting some "borrowed" Confessional jokes?

☺ ☺ ☺ ☺ ☺

There was this catholic teenager who goes to confession, and after

confessing to having an affair with a teenage girl is told by the

priest that he cannot forgive this terrible sin if the boy doesn't

tell who the girl is.

The boy says "Aw father, I promised not to tell."

"Was it Mary Particia, the Butcher's daughter?"

"Come on father, no it wasn't and I wont tell."

"Was it Mary Elizabeth, the printer's daughter?"

"No, and I still won't tell."

"Was it Mary Francis, the baker's daughter?"

"No, it wasn't and I really can't tell you who."

"Well, son, I have no choice but to excommunicate you for six months."

The boy's friend meets him afterwards outside the church and asks him
how it went:

"Well, I got six months on the outside, but three good leads!"

☺ ☺ ☺ ☺ ☺
A drunken man staggers in to a Catholic church, sits down in a confession
box and says nothing.

The bewildered priest coughs to attract his attention, but still the man
says nothing.

The priest then knocks on the wall three times in a final attempt to get
the man to speak.

Finally, the drunk replies: "No use knockin' mate, there's no paper in
this one either."

№ 2094

The Fishin' Hole

This is not one of those things that I didn't know but was afraid to ask. In my case, it's one of those things I didn't know, but never thought to ask.

Who was the whistler?

It's probably one of the most recognizable of TV theme songs. Thanks to syndicated reruns, the program has transcended the generations and continues to draw viewers.

Andy Griffith Show Theme Song

I decided to look it up to find the name of the person who was whistling during the opening credits of the program. That's when I learned for the first time that there were actually lyrics for the tune! Titled, The Fishin' Hole, the following video is a recording of Andy Griffith himself singing the song.

The Andy Griffith Show Theme Song Lyrics

The Fishin' Hole
Well, now, take down your fishin' pole and meet me at The Fishin' Hole,
We may not get a bite all day, but don't you rush away.

What a great place to rest your bones and mighty fine for skippin' stones,
You'll feel fresh as a lemonade, a-settin' in the shade.

Whether it's hot, whether it's cool, oh what a spot for whistlin' like a fool.

What a fine day to take a stroll and wander by The Fishin' Hole,
I can't think of a better way to pass the time o' day.

We'll have no need to call the roll when we get to The Fishin' Hole,
There'll be you, me, and Old Dog Trey, to doodle time away.

If we don't hook a perch or bass, we'll cool our toes in dewy grass,
Or else pull up a weed to chaw, and maybe set and jaw.

Hangin' around, takin' our ease, watchin' that hound a-scratchin' at his fleas.

Come on, take down your fishin' pole and meet me at The Fishin' Hole,
I can't think of a better way to pass the time o' day.

Music by Earle Hagen & Herbert W. Spencer
Words by Everett Sloane

While looking for the elusive name of the whistler, I found that are many avian characters out there who are quite adept at "covering" the tune.



So? Who was the whistler?

As it turns out, the identity of the whistler is indeed elusive. The majority of the sites I visited give credit to Earl Hagen, the composer of the music. According to one site, Mr. Hagen with his son snapping his fingers in the background came up with the whistling tune in a one-hour recording session.

There are references to two other possible whistlers, Fred Lowrey and Jerry Duane.

Lowrey, a recording artist, was the most successful whistler of the 40s and 50s. His whistling is heard in such recordings as "Indian Love Call" and "Tumbling Tumbleweeds." His credentials certainly make him worthy of consideration.

Duane, despite his claims as being the whistler, appears to be a red herring in this fact-finding exercise. He is cited as being known for whistling in Pepsi and Old Spice commercials.

So, I decided to look into the links for the Old Spice commercials. There, I found that Jean "Toots" Thilemans whistled for the fragrance product. There was no mention of Jerry Duane.

It seemed that "Toots" Thielemans had a lot of credits to his name. Scanning the article on this man ...

... Uh-oh!

He is the whistler of the theme of The Andy Griffith Show!!

By the way, and for the record, I learned all of these accurate facts without using Wikipedia.

So? Just who was the whistler?

To my way of thinking, I'm going to eliminate the least likely of the names - Jerry Duane. He strikes me as a man who is a very good whistler and who tries to get attention by claiming it is he who is heard on the TV show. Just my humble opinion.

I think also that I'll cross off the names of the two professional recording artists, Lowrey and Thielemans. Why? If either of these men were given credit, then they would be entitled to receive royalties. Even at a rate of pennies, that number times the number of times the program has run since it originally aired and the number of times it has aired in syndication ... would earn the artist quite a few Benjamins.

Now, if I was the song writer who would receive his own royalties, why not be credited as the artist also? Makes sense to me.

While I'm not generally given to let my imagination run wild, I don't think I want to rule out the bird! After all, what would Polly want? Crackers?

Hmmm ... It turns out that, conclusively, I'm no closer to the real identity of the whistler than I was when I started.

You know what? I'm think I'll just ... take down my fishin' pole and meet Andy at The Fishin' Hole.

№ 2093

Butterfly Dreams (46)

(A sequel to The Strange Story of Mr. Black and Ms Gray.)

They had died when helping thwart a plan to undermine the government of the United States. Now Ben and Susan have returned from the dead and they must bring that government down. Standing in their way are Michael Black and Michelle Gray, the bodies of whom they now occupy.

-(The Story begins HERE)-

A Helluva Plan

Still coughing and all but blinded from the tear gas, I heard the cargo ramp being lowered in the back cabin. Just moments later Brock was helping me to my feet and guiding me to the rear of the plane.

His escape plan was flawed I knew. Wingate and his men would've heard the ramp being lowered and they would be waiting for us at its foot, but there was no way we could remain on the plane.

"Brock," I sputtered, "why didn't give up before? You could've spared us being gassed."

"You'll have to trust me," he replied with muffled voice. He patted my backside as if to tell me that he was in control of the situation.

I felt his hand pushing against my back. Caught off balance, I was suddenly stumbling out of control down the ramp toward he tarmac. Although I was staggering somehow I managed to stay on my feet when I came in contact with level ground.

There was a loud crack and the surface next to my foot exploded in a spray of gypsum fragments. As I feared, Wingate and his men had been waiting at the base of the ramp. I turned and raised my hands above my head.

"Colonel Wingate!" O'Day shouted. "Black is secured."

"Wh ... What are you doing?" I stammered. Although blurred my vision was beginning to return to normal. Through squinting eyes I could see Brock coming down the ramp. His drawn gun was in one hand while the other was pulling something from his head. It was a gas mask.

"Well done, O'Day!" Wingate declared as he stepped into view from around the side of the plane. "Lock him up with the others."

Brock's only response to my stunned glare was to wave his still smoking pistol in the direction of the nearby building. He showed a toothy grin and flashed a curious flutter in one eye. I couldn't help but wonder if it was a cursory wink intended for my eyes only, but I decided not to physically react to the gesture. I mimicked his grin and said, " A helluva plan!"


The Games People Play
When the door closed and locked behind me I studied the faces of my fellow prisoners. Although my vision was somewhat blurred I recognized Baxter, Professor Jordan, David, and the two FBI agents, Landers and Ferrara. Noticeably absent were Susan and Faye.

"The women?" I asked.

"I would gather that they were separated from us for reasons other than that of courtesy," Baxter responded.

"I'm sure," I nodded, "but it's those other reasons that are worrying me."

Landers approached me and waved his arms in the direction of the other detainees. "I'm getting nothing from these people. Perhaps you, Mr. Black, would care to tell me what in the hell is going on."

"Agent Landers, it's all about this," I said tapping my finger on my forehead. "It's all about the mind, the human mind. Control the mind, you control the man. Control the man and you control the world."

"I'm sick and tired of all this crap about mind control!" espoused an angry Ferrara. "It's time for the White House to step in and squash these people!"

Professor Jordan's sarcastic chuckle seemed to ruffle Ferrara's feathers even more. The hair on his neck bristling he shouted at the old man, "You think this is funny? Do think it's all a game?"

Folding his arms across his chest the professor replied sternly, "A very dangerous game, Agent Ferrara. Who do you think is rolling the dice, but Washington?" He fingered the corner of his mustache and looked at each of us in turn. "We, gentlemen, are merely pawns."

I regarded Ferrara for a moment and then turned my attention to his partner. "Landers, do you honestly think that Michelle and I are responsible for all of this ... this conspiracy?"

He shook his head, "Solely? No. But it hit the fan when the two of you sent that e-mail to that reporter Bering."

Perhaps to interrupt the tension in the room David launched himself into an unceremonious and off-key rendition of an old Joe South song. "Oh the games people play now ... ev'ry night and ev'ry day now ... never meaning what they say, yeah ... never saying what they mean." Realizing he had a less than enthralled audience he blushed and stammered, "S-sorry. It just came to me ... just how appropriate those lyrics are ... given our current predicament."

"Speaking of games," Ferrara growled, "just what kind of game is your buddy O'Day playing? He sure picked one helluva time to switch sides."

"Allow me to shed some light on that matter," Baxter interjected. "Brock O'Day once served with Wingate, under the command of General Julius Gates."

"We know all about his military service," interrupted Landers, "but that was in Vietnam over forty years ago. As my partner was hinting at, why has he waited until now to crawl back in bed with him?"

"Wingate and O'Day share a certain kinship. They're both soldiers, part of a brotherhood," Baxter replied. He studied their faces for a moment and continued, "I've seen your dossiers. You and Ferrara never served in the military and as such would not understand that bond. Wingate needed someone with whom he could relate and trust and that someone was O'Day."

"Wait a minute!" Ferrara snapped. "Brotherhood or not, that doesn't explain why O'Day would take up arms with the enemy."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," harrumphed Professor Jordan, "perhaps we'd be better served asking ourselves just who the enemy might be..."

"Indeed," Baxter asserted.

He faced me and I caught sight of the briefest flutter of his left eyelid. It was the same gesture I'd noticed from Brock out on the tarmac. Perhaps, I thought suppressing a grin, Brock's plan was a good one after all.

There was a sudden roar of engines somewhere outside. It was the unmistakable sound of a helicopter approaching the complex. From the proximity of the whining engines it was obvious that the craft was about to land next to the building in which we were imprisoned.

Beyond the locked door there arose a cacophony of excited activity replete with shouts and hurried footfalls. Wingate's voice could be heard above it all. The orders he was barking were interlaced with colorful obscenities. The chorused replies, obvious military affirmatives, were sharp and left little doubt of who was in charge.

The door swung open to reveal Colonel Wingate in his full dress uniform. Standing at stiff attention he bellowed, "Gentlemen, prepare to receive your Commander-in-Chief."

( To be continued

Executive Decision )

№ 2092

Punxsutawney Phil Says Early Spring

Nuff said !

№ 2091

Chariots of the Household Gods

The cacophony of the charging warriors upon the battlefield resonated long into the day. As if some impending doom might smite them, these soldiers were hellbent on the success of their holy crusades. Woe be to he who stood in their path.

This Charge of the Light-headed Brigade was not for the pursuit of some elusive Holy Grail, it was not being mounted to recapture usurped homelands, and it was not a call to arms to appease their gods. Nay, their quest was being fueled by the need for survival.

Onward through a phalanx of chariots they laid siege upon the unprotected stores. They raided the shopkeeper's larders, hoarded the fruits and vegetables of the farmers' gardens and claimed the meats of their livestock. They pillaged the dairies and sacked the bakeries. Hungry for more spoils of war, they ran gauntlet after gauntlet to amass even more booty.

The combatants cursed those charioteers who might veer into their path. The weaker of the enemies were forced to yield to the skill of the fastest and to the power of the strongest. Seasoned warriors, veterans of such wars, see these encounters as mere skirmishes.

There are no standard bearers - no flags furled or unfurled rise above these chariots of the household gods.

These soldiers wear no armor or suits made of chain-mail. Their battledress is as varied as individuals themselves. They are not armed with lances, spears or arrows - but nonetheless, they are heavily armed.

They carry weapons of great power - cash, credit cards, debit cards and even food stamps.

They are driven by words of the doomsayers, the seers and the oracles. Are these purveyors of doom wizards? In days of yore, they might have been thought to have mystical powers. In the present times, however, they who spur these crusades are known as meteorologists.

Thus it has come to pass that these prognosticators of the weather have set into motion the marauding hordes who are bearing down upon the establishments to purchase their goods.

When it comes to weathermen and weather-women, is it me, or do they seem to regale in nasty weather forecasts? They do not seem to be as enthusiastic when the weather is going to be sunny and fair. However, when it comes to a blizzard - it looks like some of them get rather ... orgasmic!

Beaming from ear to ear, the meteorologists are once again spreading their cheer.

Before sunrise tomorrow, Tuesday, February 1, snow will begin falling in parts of New England. By the time the sun sets there will be 6 inches of the white stuff piled up on the remnants of last week's 11 inches.

If that forecast wasn't bad enough, he all but danced a jig as added a caveat - there will be more snow on Wednesday.

(If he is at all able to see over the snowbanks, I don't think the groundhog is going to like what awaits him.)

The forecast for Wednesday? Snow all day - to the tune of 18 inches !!!

This afternoon my wife and I were among those warriors charging through the throngs behind our chariot. We fought the heavier than usual traffic to and from the grocery store. We foraged at the fast-emptying shelves and displays cases. We endured the torture of the long checkout lines.

There's a good chance that I'll be spending most of the day Thursday shoveling, digging us out. We might end up being housebound until Friday. Like any warring faction, we had to stock up to endure Mother Nature's siege.

№ 2090

Butterfly Dreams (45)

(A sequel to The Strange Story of Mr. Black and Ms Gray.)

They had died when helping thwart a plan to undermine the government of the United States. Now Ben and Susan have returned from the dead and they must bring that government down. Standing in their way are Michael Black and Michelle Gray, the bodies of whom they now occupy.

-(The Story begins HERE)-

Out Minded

Brock hefted his service revolver from one hand to the other. Craning his head in my direction and then to the exit door, it was obvious that he was weighing his options.

His eyes narrowing into slits he grunted, "How's the headache? You able to function?"

"I'll live," I replied warily before realizing what he was implying. "Why are you stalling? You can't be thinking of blasting your way out of this mess."

Wingate's voice rang out again, "You are trying my patience, O'Day."

"Nothing as hair-brained as that," he gloated ignoring the threat from outside. "But I do have an idea ... and it just might work too."

I shook my head in disbelief that he thought there was a way out of our situation using force. To my way of thinking, at that moment surrender was the best option. We would have a far better chance of coming up with a means of escape as live prisoners than as corpses.

It was Baxter who was next heard, "Michael, Brock ... the colonel is serious."

A tense pounding grew behind my eyes when Michelle shouted, "Please, Michael. As long as you're on that plane, I cannot protect you."

"Brock," I pleaded, "this is an Air Force base. It must be Nellis. There must be dozens of armed airmen out there."

"Nellis? Nellis is over 800 miles as the crow flies from here. We're in Amarillo, my friend."

Stunned I muttered, "Amarillo? Texas? Are you sure?"

He gave a slight nod of the head, "I know there are no wind farms in operation in the Vegas area. I caught sight of them when we turned into the landing pattern. The only wind turbines near a desert and an airbase that I know of are part of the Wildorado Wind Ranch outside of Amarillo."

I took a deep breath and tried to digest Brock's words. "We were supposed to hook up in Las Vegas. What is Michelle doing here? Why is she helping Wingate?"

O'Day's eyes widened and he barked, "Michelle? What makes you think she's here?"

I glanced at the bloodied welt on the side of his neck, "Did that shot affect your hearing? You didn't hear her voice out there?"

A quizzical look on his face, he remained silent for a few moments before responding. "No, I didn't hear her. Michael, that headache ... someone is trying to get in your head. You're being out-minded!"

There was a sudden thump as something struck the side of the entrance. The object careened toward the front of the cabin, rolled on the floor and came to rest next to the door to the cockpit area. There was a hiss of escaping pressure from the cylinder followed by a billowing cloud of grayish smoke.

"Tear gas!" Brock yelped. "Haul ass to the back of the plane!"

It was at that moment that another one of the objects clattered against the interior of the plane. Hurled from a different angle than the first, it bounced along the decking toward the back of the cabin.

Choking on the first wisps of the spreading cloud O'Day blubbered, "Close your eyes and try not to breathe, Michael. Work your way to the back cabin. Hurry!"

Too late his warnings, the large gulp of air I swallowed was already burning a path from my throat to my lungs. The involuntary defensive action of my tear ducts did little to ease the searing irritation in my eyes.

I felt a sudden vice-like grip on my arm. My body, weak and limp like that of a rag doll, was being dragged to the aft section of the plane. Even as the door to the back cabin slammed shut, a convulsive eruption wracked my body and the ejected sputum splattered on the floor next to my face.

Although his voice sounded muted O'Day shouted, "Lie still. You need fresh air. I'll open the cargo ramp and get you out of here."

( To be continued

A Helluva Plan )

№ 2089

Six Years and Still Ticking

It just occurred to me that back on January 20, 2005, six years ago to date, I posted for the first time to a blog site which I named: "It Occurred To Me."

For the better part of those six years the hammer in my profile has been relentlessy pounding on the head of one stubborn nail.

Viewing myself as the hammer and the keyboard as the nail, it has been an on-going and enjoyable project. This, my 2088th posting, is intended as a reflection of what this site means to me - what it began as and what it has become.

Below the blog title, it reads:

My feelings, beliefs, and/or ideas about just about anything. These may not agree with you, and that is okay. Nothing I say or imply is meant to offend. Allow me to hammer home my points. Satire is my cause and humor is my sword and pen.

I've never felt a need to rewrite those words, because that mantra, if you will, still holds true. That's not to say that my writings have not evolved. They have. As for my feelings, beliefs, and/or ideas - perhaps they have been at least ... tweaked ... by an ever-changing world.

There have been times that I've felt as if I were on the brink of burnout - not only from suffering from bouts of writer's block, but from having my head so full of ideas that nothing could be committed to a post!

It was at those times when the creative juices weren't flowing that I began to "harvest" material from the web to post here. When using this "copy-and-paste" method of plagiarism, I have always tried to give credit to the source either by hyperlink or by mention of a name. Of course this isn't always possible when the material is received in an e-mail, as the source is often omitted.

This past weekend my site meter hit 500,000! Although I had been aware that number would soon be hit, when I saw it I said to myself, "Wow! That's a half-million visits to my site." Applying a little math to the numbers, that means that over those six years, I've been averaging a little over 315 hits per day!

To those 500,000+ visitors - yes, I realize that many of those are return visitors - THANK YOU! I must be doing something write right.

It catches my attention ... it relaxes my mind ... it inspires me ... watching my kitten play with some red yard.

Really, readers, if that was my kitten, do you think I'd be sitting here typing, trying to compose this narrative?

If you are offended by that picture ... remember that satire is my cause and humor is my sword and pen.

Yes, much of my work is of an adult nature. I can only assume that most of the readers who visit here are adults. I've poked fun at religion and do not pretend to be pious. I've kicked literary sand in the faces of politicians without showing partisan favoritism. Some of my posts have had me walking on thin ice between being a gentleman and a chauvinist. While not bigoted, I have thrown some jabs at ethnic groups.

What will the seventh year bring? I started this blog to be a collection of humor, and I intend to keep the focus in that area.

Having said that, since July of 2006, with the posting of the short story, Talking To the Walls, I have posted 12 other works of fiction with a 14th in progress. While I'm not sure exactly in length (number of words) what constitutes a short story and a novella, my works of fiction probably fall somewhere between the two.

There will come a time, when I feel I have built up a sufficient body of work, that I will explore the idea of publishing these stories. (I think it will be sooner than later, especially now that I'm retired.)

If you've read into the last paragraph that I have more stories in my head - you'd be right. I might even consider drafting a few stories for publication and not post them here.

In closing, I hope that no matter the content, I will be still be blogging whenever it occurs to me, for many more years to come.

№ 2088

After 20 Days - Still Retired

There's never enough time to do all the nothing you want. - Bill Watterson

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Old Faithful
My nookie days are over, my pilot light is out.

What used to be my sex appeal, is now my water spout.

Time was when, of its own accords, from my trousers it would spring.

but now I have a full time job, just to find the blasted thing.

It used to be embarrassing, the way it would behave.

For every single morning, it would stand and watch me shave.

But now as old age approaches, it sure gives me the blues.

To see it hang its withered head, and watch me tie my shoes.

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Retirement is the time when you never do all the things you intended to do when you were still working. - Anonymous

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It's Better Than a Watch!
The neighborhood postman was retiring after 25 years.

On his last day of delivering mail, all of the people on his route left him something in the mail box in honor of his retirement. Some left money, some left small gifts, and some met him at the door and invited him in for a meal. This went on all through the neighborhood.

As he proceeded through his route, the gifts got better and better. One house even gave him a gold watch!

He was so satisfied, but the last house paled in comparison.

As he was putting the mail in the mailbox, the door opened, and the woman of the house stood there in beautiful lingerie. She invited him inside.

He knew that this woman's husband was a truck driver and was away, so he went inside.

She proceeded to give him the day and night of his life.

The next morning he woke up to find she was bringing him breakfast in bed.

He found a dollar bill under his plate as he ate and asked her about it.

She explained, "When I called my husband to tell ask him what we should give you for your retirement, he said, 'screw him, give him a dollar.' Breakfast was my idea."

Daydreaming

I Heard You
An elderly gentleman had serious hearing problems for a number of years. He went to the doctor and the doctor was able to have him fitted for a set of hearing aids that allowed the gentleman to hear 100%. The elderly gentleman went back in a month to the doctor and the doctor said, 'Your hearing is perfect. Your family must be really pleased that you can hear again.'

The gentleman replied, 'Oh, I haven't told my family yet. I just sit around and listen to the conversations. I've changed my will three times!'

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You Know You're Retired ...
# There are three signs of old age. The first is your loss of memory. I forget the other two.

# You're getting old when you don't care where your spouse goes, just as long as you don't have to go along.

# Middle age is when work is a lot less fun - and fun is a lot more work.

# Statistics show that at the age of seventy, there are five women to every man. Now isn't that a great time for a guy to get those kind of odds?

# You know you're getting on in years when the girls at the office start confiding in you.

# Middle age is when it takes longer to rest than to get tired.

# Middle age is when you have stopped growing at both ends, and have begun to grow in the middle.

# You know you're into middle age when you realize that caution is the only thing you care to exercise.

# You're getting old when you wake up with that morning-after feeling, and you didn't do anything the night before!

# The cardiologist's diet: if it tastes good, spit it out.

# It's hard to be nostalgic when you can't remember anything.

# When you lean over to pick something up off the floor, you ask yourself if there is anything else you need to do while you are down there.

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PEOPLE OVER 50

Q: Where can women over the age of 50 find young, sexy men, who are interested in them?
A: Try a bookstore under fiction.

Q: What can a man do while his wife is going through menopause?
A: Keep busy. If you're handy with tools, you can finish the basement. When you are done you will have a place to live.

Q: How can you increase the heart rate of your 50+ year old husband?
A: Tell him you're pregnant.

Q: How can you avoid spotting a wrinkle every time you walk by a mirror?
A: The next time you're in front of a mirror, take off your glasses.

Q: Why should 50+ year old people use valet parking?
A: Valets don't forget where they park your car.

Q: Is it common for 50+ year olds to have problems with short-term memory storage?
A: Storing memory is not a problem; retrieving it is a problem.

Q: As people age, do they sleep more soundly?
A: Yes, but usually in the afternoon.

Q: Where do 50+ year olds look for fashionable glasses?
A: Their foreheads.

Q: What is the most common remark made by 50+ year olds when they enter antique stores?
A: "I remember these."

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Even Retired Men Like Exotic Dancers

№ 2087

Butterfly Dreams (44)

(A sequel to The Strange Story of Mr. Black and Ms Gray.)

They had died when helping thwart a plan to undermine the government of the United States. Now Ben and Susan have returned from the dead and they must bring that government down. Standing in their way are Michael Black and Michelle Gray, the bodies of whom they now occupy.

-(The Story begins HERE)-

Enter the Traitor

The sound of the landing gear being lowered could be heard beneath us and I tightened my grip on the armrest in anticipation of its contact with the tarmac. The huge military aircraft may have been sufficient for the armed forces, but its attention to passenger comfort fell short of its commercial cousins.

There was a series of jolts when each set of the jet's wheels met the earth. The whine of the engines being powered down resonated throughout the craft as it taxied along the tarmac.

Although Baxter was still training the pistol on him, I was studying Wingate's composure. When he looked about at each of us there was a menacing scowl on his face, except when his eyes fell upon Faye O'Day. When their eyes met, the furrows of his brow became less apparent.

As for Faye, her countenance had remained stoic. Even when the colonel glanced in her direction, she sat in silence and stared straight ahead. For someone who only minutes before had been enraged at the man who would've killed her along with the all the passengers on the plane, she was sitting across from him with a remarkably calm demeanor.

I didn't like it. I couldn't help but think that her actions were all too convenient. While the other passengers up front had been asleep under the influence of Wingate's drug, why had she waited until that precise moment to enter our cabin? Coincidence? I didn't think so, it was too perfect.

In the past year I had experienced more than enough treachery on Faye's part to allow myself to tender any trust in her. Cringing I tried to suppress the memory that I'd even been married to the woman! The memory of that union spawned a pain at bridge of my nose, between my eyes.

After we'd divorced, I'd sworn I would never get married again. Yet, as I looked over at her, I couldn't help but think that perhaps there was a chance we could start anew. She was looking back at me with a warm smile. Maybe, just maybe she felt the same way.

It must have been a middle-aged crisis thing. That young woman, Susan ... she was half my age! What was I thinking? Wait! That was part of my cover. I was working on a story to expose an underground pornography ring, which was operating under the name of Butterfly Blue. I'd seen the scathing video tapes. The participants, unwilling as I had discovered, had been subjected to mind-altering drugs.

Because high-ranking officials had been involved, the Globe was threatened with libel suits. So it was that the paper decided to kill the story, to suppress it. The two whistle-blowers, Mr. Black and Ms Gray, had been summarily discredited.

Brock O'Day appeared in the doorway and announced, "It's time to get off this crate. What are you waiting for?"

I looked around and found myself alone in the cabin. I rubbed my forehead and muttered, "I just had a migraine attack. It must have been all those beers and the altitude."

"Beers?" O'Day said with chagrin. "All we had were some lukewarm colas. We didn't even get any pretzels! Now that we're here, I gotta get some grub."

I pushed myself to my feet and queried, "Just where is ... here?"

He shrugged and shook his head, "Beats me. It's definitely a military base of some kind. When I asked Baxter, all he would say was that the place was classified."

"I don't like the sound of that. I don't think they're going to let us just walk away from here. One thing in our favor, at least we can use Wingate as a bargaining chip."

"What? What are you talking about?" O'Day said wide-eyed.

"Jeremy got the drop on him. That crazy bastard was going to blow up the plane with us on it," I exclaimed.

"How many beers did you have anyway? Blow up the plane? Where did you get that crazy idea? He and Baxter led the others into the hangar. Baxter didn't have a gun in his hand."

I grabbed his arm and pulled him back before he stepped through the door and onto the departure platform. "Bear with me, Brock! Are we the last two on board?"

He wrenched his arm from my grasp, "Yeah. What of it?"

"Who sent you back for me?"

"Colonel Wingate, of course," he replied.

"I don't like this one bit, Brock," I muttered. "I think you and I have been deemed expendable."

"Don't be ridiculous!" he snapped. He turned away and stepped onto the platform. A loud crack echoed across the grounds. O'Day fell back into the cabin clutching the side of his neck.

Pulling him away from the portal I cried, "Brock! Are you hit?"

Still clutching his neck he moaned and sat up. "It just grazed my neck," he growled. He lowered his hand to view the blood in his palm. "Son of a bitch! Who shot at me? ...And why?"

"You in the plane!" boomed a voice outside. "That was a warning. Officer O'Day toss your service revolver out of the plane and onto the tarmac! Then both of you come out with your hands behind your head!"

"Damn!" I yelped. "That's Ferrara ... one of the FBI agents!"

Then Wingate's voice rang out, "Don't make me give the order to my men to open up with armor piercing shells! That's one expensive airplane, gentlemen. I don't want to put any holes in it."

"Sergeant O'Day, do as he says. He will give that order," Jeremy Baxter shouted.

Brock looked at me and said, "It's getting so I don't know who to trust anymore." He reached inside of his jacket and removed his gun. He grinned and added, "Where's backup when I need it?"

"Brock, do as they say. Throw the gun out." I cried.

Baxter shouted again, "Michael, if you don't trust me or the colonel ... then listen to the one who is charge of this operation."

"Please, Michael ... Brock! Do as they say," the all too familiar voice cut to my very soul.

Tears of anger and betrayal formed in the corners of my eyes. She had turned against us! She was a traitor ... my wife ... Michelle!"

( To be continued

Out Minded )

№ 2086

Butterfly Dreams (43)

(A sequel to The Strange Story of Mr. Black and Ms Gray.)

They had died when helping thwart a plan to undermine the government of the United States. Now Ben and Susan have returned from the dead and they must bring that government down. Standing in their way are Michael Black and Michelle Gray, the bodies of whom they now occupy.

-(The Story begins HERE)-

An Unlikely Savior

The door at Wingate's back swung open and struck him, the force of which threw him off balance and onto the deck. I looked up to see Faye standing in the doorway. There was as an angry scowl on her face.

"Don't just sit there!" she bellowed. "Grab the son of a bitch's gun!"

Without hesitation I knelt beside him and removed the pistol from the holster, but I was caught off guard when with a sudden reflex motion he grabbed my arm. Despite my efforts to secure the weapon, it squirted from my hand and fell onto the floor between our bodies.

His years of military conditioning proved too much for the more sedentary attention I'd ever given to exercise. The drive of his knee into my groin all but put an end to the struggle. Having reacquired his gun he got to his feet and pointed it at Faye.

"Mrs. O'Day, what do think you're doing?" he roared. "Have you forgotten whose side you're on?"

"You bastard!" she screeched. "You were going kill everyone, including me! How dare you question my loyalty."

There was a sudden jolt of the plane. Wingate seemed to be expecting the disturbance and gloated, "That would be my troops opening the cargo ramp. It's time for us to disembark."

From the corner of my eye I caught movement to the colonel's right. He was turned slightly and realized a second too late that Baxter had been feigning unconsciousness. There was a gush of air escaping Wingate's lungs when the toe of Baxter's shoe impacted his solar plexus. In one moment Wingate had been training his gun on us, in the next it was Baxter standing over him with the gun in hand.

"It was you who taught me to never assume that your enemy is incapacitated. Colonel, it would appear that you violated your own rules of combat," Baxter pontificated to the fallen officer.

Rubbing his abdomen he spoke in defiance, "It doesn't matter. My men have already left the plane. Private Jones has his orders. With or without me, he will detonate those charges the moment he hits terra firma." He moved his arms outward with dancing fingers and said, "Boom!"

Craning his neck to see out of the window Jordan remarked, "I can see several parachutes floating to the ground."

"How ... how can the three of you be so calm? We're all going to die!" Faye cried.

"I don't think so, Mrs. O'Day," Baxter responded, "I'm guessing that the Colonel here has a contingency plan. Despite his outward toughness, this man is no hero, and he's not about to die for any cause."

Wingate snarled, "How dare you speak of me as a coward. You, Baxter, are the coward ... and a traitor!" He didn't wait for Jeremy to respond but turned his verbal tirade at Faye. "...And you! Your father would be ashamed of you and what you've done."

Professor Jordan stood and wagged his finger at the man, "No, he would not! In fact, I'm quite proud of her."

His mouth agape Wingate uttered, "What? What are talking about? Julius Gates is her father."

Her hands on her hips, Faye shook her head and said, "Step-father, Colonel. This man is my biological father."

Baxter addressed me, "Michael, this plane will not be able to land with that cargo ramp down. Could you go close it?" When he saw the word 'how' forming on my lips he said, "In the rear of the troop cabin you will see a panel with a series of buttons. The top-most button will close the ramp."

When I returned to the cabin I nodded to Jeremy that the ramp had been closed. Grinning, I noted that the angry exchanges between Faye, Baxter and Wingate had not abated.

"You fools!" the colonel roared. "You don't realize what you're messing with, and with whom you're messing. It's bigger than all of us. Nothing that happens here on this plane will change anything. Mark my words, there is no stopping us."

Faye turned and looked back into the main cabin. "It looks like whatever you put in the drinks is wearing off, Colonel. They're all beginning to come to."

"Drugged?" Jordan said.

"Yes, drugged. It seems that the colonel here slipped a micky in our drinks. He was going to blow up the plane while they were sleeping."

"You weren't affected?" I asked.

She smiled and shook her head, "No. I didn't have a drink. I tend to get very airsick when I fly, so I took some Dramamine. I thought it best not to mix alcohol when the medicine."

Baxter chuckled, "He knew you didn't drink it, but he wasn't concerned about you being awake. You were part of his team!"

Nodding she responded, "Right. He didn't count on me eavesdropping behind the door and learning about the explosives."

"All I know is that you are our unlikely savior, Mrs. O'Day," I remarked, "even though you acted as such only because you were being betrayed."

Professor Jordan touched my arm and said, "Michael, you should not be so quick to judge her."

I was about to recite any number of suspicious and treacherous acts that could be attributed to her when a voice boomed over the intercom. "This is the pilot, we are approaching the landing strip. We will be touching down in one minute. For your safety, please be seated and secure your seat belts."

( To be continued

Enter the Traitor )

№ 2085

After 'Once Upon A Time'

Do you remember all those fairy tales from our youth?

Have you ever wondered what ever happened to the characters?

Wonder no more!

Cinderella

Snow White

Little Red Riding Hood

Sleeping Beauty

Jasmine  (from Aladdin)

Belle (from Beauty & the Beast)

Ariel (The Little Mermaid)

- Thank you, Cathy

№ 2084

Butterfly Dreams (42)

(A sequel to The Strange Story of Mr. Black and Ms Gray.)

They had died when helping thwart a plan to undermine the government of the United States. Now Ben and Susan have returned from the dead and they must bring that government down. Standing in their way are Michael Black and Michelle Gray, the bodies of whom they now occupy.

-(The Story begins HERE)-

Purple Mountain Majesty

All but overcome by the old man's revelations, I pressed my index fingers hard against the sides of my head to relieve the throbbing pressure of my temples. I was lost in a sea of chaos where not only nothing was it as it seemed, but no one appeared to be who they really were.

I could feel the plane begin to bank slightly to our right. Glancing in that direction, I figured that it must have been a mid-flight adjustment to bring us on course to our final destination.

Next to me the professor began a slightly off-key chant, "Oh, beautiful for purple mountain majesties ..."

Perhaps he deliberately left out the spacious skies and amber waves of grain lines, or maybe he didn't really know the lyrics I thought. Through the window next to him I could see what had inspired him. In the distance, rising above the clouds, the high peaks of the Rocky Mountains had come into view.

The mountains, however, failed to fill me with patriotic sentiments. If anything, they evoked a sense of dread of what awaited us beneath their peaks. My redundant announcement caught their attention, "We're almost there."

Baxter glanced at his watch and nodded, "Yes. We'll be starting our descent in ten minutes."

"When we land, just what is our plan of action?" I asked. The only response was Jordan's shrug and Baxter's unblinking eyes. "There is a plan in place ... right?"

"A plan?" Baxter grinned. "I would venture to say that there are several plans in place." He waited for the anguish on my face to dissipate and elaborated, "Out there in the main cabin sits Wingate and two FBI agents. I can assure you that the plans of the military and the FBI are not from the same play book. They are not about to share the prize."

My eyes darted between the pair and I growled, "If we're not collaborating our efforts with them, then why on earth are we traveling together?"

"Michael," the professor offered, "might I remind you that there is yet another faction out there? The fact that their organization doesn't officially exist, doesn't mean that they are to be dismissed."

Rubbing my chin I realized what he was inferring. "Ah, our unlikely alliance is intended as a show of force?"

"Precisely," he answered.

Bemused I threw my arms above my head and expounded, "So, when our unnamed friends learn that we are working together ... they're going to shit their pants and just ... walk away?"

"Great plan, eh?" Baxter said, sarcasm ruling the tone of his voice.

I clasped my hands behind my head and stared up at the ceiling for several moments before asking the question to which I already knew the answer, "Who, pray tell, came up with that brilliant plan?"

Although Baxter saw through my feigned query, Jordan did not, "Why, our illustrious Commander-in-Chief of course!"

The door to the main cabin swung open. Wingate walked in and addressed us, "Gentlemen, we are about to land. Buckle up!" He then strode past us and opened a door at the back of the cabin. He looked inside and belched an order, "Men, lock and load!"

Stunned, I attempted to get to my feet but Professor Jordan grabbed my arm. I glared at Wingate and yelped, "You've got armed troops in there! Why?"

Glancing at me he replied with a haughty arrogance, "We might be on the same team ... for now ... but I have my orders to be prepared for armed resistance."

"I was promised that there would be no violence!" Jordan cried. "We are here to seize control of the research facility. We have Butterfly Dreams. There is no need for weapons."

I turned and glared at the old man, "You ... you're a part of this? Whose side are you on?"

"Enough, old man!" Wingate shouted. "My orders are neither subject to interpretation nor open for discussion. Allow me to inform you that as of this moment you are no longer useful to us."

At that moment a soldier stepped forward from the rear cabin. He snapped to attention and saluted, "Everything is ready, just as you ordered, sir."

In what seemed to be one fluent move, Wingate withdrew his pistol from the holster at his waist and swung his arm to his left. Baxter crumpled in his seat from the force of the gun striking the side of his head. I had no more than opened my mouth when the muzzle of weapon was pressed against my forehead.

"Relax, Mr. Black," he said holstering his gun. Standing before me, his hands on his hips, a menacing sneer stretching his mouth into an angry crevice, he spoke slowly and deliberately, "I'm afraid there is going to be a most unfortunate accident. When I give the command, the private here will be detonating several strategically placed C-4 charges."

I slumped in my seat and sighed, "Of course you and your men will have disembarked by then."

"Of course! My mission is to eliminate the subversive elements that are a threat to our operations and to protect those operations at all costs. While my men and I are parachuting safely to earth, you and your friends on board will die in an unexplained midair explosion of this craft."

( To be continued

An Unlikely Savior )

№ 2083

Here's Mud Ennui

Well, it's been nine days since I officially dropped out of the ranks of the working stiffs. It's too small of a sampling to know how I like being among the retired stiffs.

So far it has felt more like I've been off for the long New Year's weekend followed by a week's vacation. In a nutshell, it really hasn't registered yet. One thing is for certain, ennui has yet to come knocking.

The New Year began with taking down the outdoor Christmas decorations, followed by stowing the fiber-optic tree away until next December. Of course, there was still some cleanup from the Blizzard of 2010. Then on two occasions my wife convinced me I should accompany her to the grocery store because more snow had been forecast for the upcoming weekend.

Oh yeah, why should she have to cook after we'd gone food shopping? Just what I needed: to wait in a long line at a popular restaurant with others who didn't want to cook either.

I had almost forgotten that last week I'd promised a friend I would take to him a doctor's appointment. Oh well, I had nothing better to do than to sit in a hospital waiting room for those three hours anyway!

Damn! I remembered that I needed to run to the gas station to fill up my gasoline can. I wouldn't want to run out of gas for the snow blower!

(Expletives deleted) We went to the grocery store twice this week - what do you mean we need milk?

Bored? I haven't found time to get bored!

It seems that I've been spending more time in my shoes than in my slippers! I've been sitting behind a steering wheel more than I have been in repose in my recliner. Things seemed to be less hectic when I was working.

Among my Christmas gifts were some DVDs. I've had them sitting in waiting for when boredom sets in. Needless to say, they haven't come into play to be played as of yet. The movies include: Avatar (the Director's cut); The Town; Inception; Jonah Hex; The A-Team; and Knight and Day.

Then there is the matter of this blog - especially the fictional story, "Butterfly Dreams," which has been in limbo since 12/10/10. Distracted by the NFL playoff games this weekend, I will be delving back into that tale starting tomorrow, 1/10/11, and will be posted the next installment soon. (I'll have to go back and read previous installments to refresh my memory where the story stands.)

It would seem that it will not be soon that I find time to become bored.

Here's mud ennui !

№ 2082

Deconstructing Christmas

The bane of Christmas decorations: 

Taking them down and storing them until next year.

It's one of those annual rites of the New Year. Remember how you get into the spirit of Christmas when you cheerfully deck your house inside and out with all those festive decorations?

Isn't it kind of ironic when it comes to taking it all down, I think of it as deconstructing Christmas, that the task seems to be rather laborious? It tends to become one of those chores that you are prone to put off until later, like say, tomorrow or the day after.

While performing this duty today, I came across a box of ornaments that we haven't used in quite some time. These were special and have sentimental value to us. I'd like to believe they are probably one of a kind.

I thought it would be a good idea to share the images of them. I scanned them and uploaded them to this post.

They were hung on our Christmas trees when my daughter, Gretchen, was younger and still lived with us. All of them were hand-made by myself. They are hand-drawn and hand-painted onto various shaped pieces of wood. You might recognize that the one to the left was fashioned from a wooden stirrer.

The 3 figures at the right were made from those wooden sticks used to stir a can of paint.

Quite a few of our Christmas trees over the years had no store-bought ornaments on the branches, instead they were decked out with these hand-made ones.

On several occasions Gretchen has taken a few of my pieces, her favorites, to her new home. I've been noticing that the contents of the box housing my collection has been dwindling in numbers over the years. That's okay, of course. I guess we should look at them as family heirlooms which are intended to be handed down.

Now that I'm retired, I'm thinking that I should return to my shop and start producing more of these items. I use to sell my wood crafts and did alright. For us retirees, extra spending money in the pocket never hurts.

№ 2081