A glass of 1968 Urine, please!


I’m not aging like a fine red wine.  No, sir.  Quite the  contrary.  My cork is compromised, and I’m smelling more like vinegar … or is it urine?  Let me explain …

When I was much younger, we used to run until we vomited.  Out there in the Oregon woodlands, we opened her up for miles on end.  At the end of the course, whoever wasn’t puking their guts out didn’t try hard enough, your typical collegiate machismo.  Nowadays, I can’t reach that threshold.  My legs give out, my lungs, and just the other day it was my bladder.   That’s right, in the humidity and heat of North Carolina, I went on a run, and was eventually faced with two options: 1) Duck into someone’s backyard and relieve myself; or 2) keep on trucking like back in the day … and relieve myself.  Option number one came with thoughts of cops and subsequent judges.  Option two came with shame and a quick load of laundry.  In the end, the decision was relatively easy.  Fortunately, there wasn’t much foot traffic, just me and my wet britches hogging the sidewalk.  Someone honked, presumably the same fine gentleman with an I-honk-for-dummies sticker affixed to his bumper.  I’d like to think that I brightened up his day.  His wife may have left him, his wallet empty, but at least he wasn’t no dumb sonofabitch with wet-assed britches running in this god-awful heat.  Or perhaps the honk was from a neighbor wishing to bid adieu, who knows.  Either way, my kids found this hilarious, dad standing there in his running shorts, a big wet spot where his dignity used to be.

Ten or so years ago there would have been lies instead of confessions.  A sprinkler or a water balloon right to my manhood, blam!  But I’m over that now.  I’m not perfect, never was, and never will be.  I’ve also peed in the pool, there I’ve said it.  Some nights I snore.  Feta cheese gives me gas.  I cry at sappy movies, and then hate myself for it afterwards.  And yes, I’ve lied about the tears.  There was something in my eye, blah blah blah, you know the drill.

I blame my shame on Superman.  We watch him in the movies, admire him, want to be him.  But ultimately, we all fall short.  Each and every one of us is slower than a speeding bullet, less powerful than a locomotive, and can barely leap from bed in the morning, let alone the tallest building.

And while my kids might be older, and no longer see the big S on my chest, I’m still going to throw on my cape and imagine.  So go ahead and honk for dummies, who cares.  I’ve got miles to soar, and I’m not quite there yet.  Although, you may smell me when I get there, the stink of vinegar, urine, or worse, oh my!

The Vlad Father


In my country, they called me The Vlad Father. It is funny joke, ha ha, and I laugh. Yes, I am a fan of the jokes. The jesters would come to me, one by one, and some would make Vlad giggle. Others would fail miserably, and for them Vlad had joke of his own: What do you call jester who is black, blue and dead all over? You! Ha ha. It is funny because it is true. But there came time when Vlad’s brand of humor was no longer welcomed, and so he sneak across borders and find himself here, in America, where everyone is jester. Hilarity abounds like the young, supple breasts of Vlad’s harem. Big jokes, little jokes, and what do you need really but a handful of jokes? Ha ha.

In my country, there were no cheeseburgers or pizza.  Supersized were the buttocks of our women, and for that, Vlad had second orders.  Ha ha.  At dinner table, Vlad gorged on fatty slab of meat, what he called wife, Bathsheba.  Ha ha.  Right there on table.  She did not cross borders here into America, not because she had no love for The Vlad Father, but because we had to, as you say, haul ass, and when Bathsheba haul her ass, she need several trips.  Ha ha.  Who had time?

In my country, health care is free.  Go to clinic, get shot for VD.  That’s right, we shoot you in head with pistol.  So perhaps not free, for what is cost of bullet?  Ha ha.  There is no wait, and no complaints.  Our health care system is model for world, you should see.  We give new meaning to open up wide, for several doctors like to go to back door for knock-knock joke.  Ice cream, you scream, and orange you glad he has small banana.  Ha ha.

Oh, they say we are brutes without hearts, but in freezer there are several, of every shape and size.  You got bad heart, Vlad got good heart, or kidney, whatever you need, my friend.  We even run special: two eyes for price of one.  In America you are wasteful.  In my country, we harvest, and patch up like new again.  Lonely men buy the most lovely and perfect brides, who cannot speak without tongue, or eat without belly.  Sure, in time they smell, like normal living wife, ha ha.  Vlad makes no promise of rose garden, so push her in, pull her in, drag her in, and Vlad exchange decomposing flesh for less decomposing flesh.  The key word being flesh, my advice to get them while they are hot like pancakes.  Ha ha.

When I was boy, I had a puppy.  He was delicious.  Ha ha.

But now I am man in America, where treasury give Vlad staples, and this list of Craig give Vlad women.  Neighbors sniff air, and ask what Vlad is cooking.  It is Sarah from 3B.  Everyone said she had fresh ideas, and this is true, tasty and moist also her brains.  We have dinner party, and John from 2A, picking his teeth, says, “No, really, why isn’t Sarah here?”

My freezer is becoming full again, like back in my country.  Soon, Vlad will have blow-out sale on the Ebay.  Get orders in now, these prices are crazy, and will not last.

Yes, Vlad like new country, where everyone feeds like tick on ass of deer.  Sure, deer will die, but we harvest organs, patch up like new, and send to China, where they already own on layaway.  In meantime, bon appetite, my friends, and may Vlad bless America.

You are welcome!