Occupy Nightmare

By Rose A. Valenta

Gauging the increasing vertical wind shear with his famous Cockatoo comb over, Donald J. Trump looked me straight in the eye and asked, “If you are elected President of the United States, what measures would you take to wipe out our national debt?”

He had decided to hold presidential debates at Zuccotti Park, following the swimsuit competition in Iowa, because the rest of the country was beseiged with political sex scandals, embarrassing gaffes, and unimpressed voters. Protest signs in the Park displayed pictures of the Grand Old Party (GOP) candidates and a single word that reflected the general consensus of the crowd, given the choices - “Meh!”

The political yammer was now between me and an ex-hooker from the Bronx; the wind shear developing perpendicular to The Donald.

Photo: Sulphur-crested Cockatoo, Wikipedia

“Two strategies come to mind that I believe will reduce the pork fat while simultaneously wiping out our national debt:

First, while outsourcing has become a popular way for large companies to save money, poor states like Delaware have been overlooked. A man working at a factory job in New York earns twice as much as a man doing the same job in Dover, Delaware, where the pay is equivalent to salaries paid in Beijing, China. I suggest that more companies be given a stimulus to outsource work to other companies in underdeveloped cities across America. The product could then be labeled properly ‘Made in America,’ and everyone would be happy, including the poor fellow bent over in Dover, who will be appreciative and vote for me in November.”

The crowd cheered loudly. Ten fellows, who were holding dollar bills for my opponent, gave them to my campaign manager instead. He put them under his Hello Kitty belt buckle.

“Second, I would advise the slugs in Congress to consolidate. States like Rhode Island with only four electoral votes can be easily merged into States like Massachusetts, which has 13; Vermont can go to New York; New Hampshire to Maine; and so forth, until we evolve into an economic Godzilla. Then, we can go overseas and stomp on China for pirating, bootlegging, and violating US copyright and trademark laws. We should then be able to raise about $17 trillion just on the booty that we find in Shanghai.”

More cheers and shouting came from the crowd. Even my opponent was shaking her booty.

Someone started to shake me.

“Wake up, wake up!” my paramour shouted. “Were you having a nightmare?”

Utterly disappointed that the whole experience was based on an underdone potato, I asked the typical morning after question, “What did I say?”

“You were screaming something about not getting 10,000 signatures for the Dover ballot.”

“Was that before or after I invented the GOP drinking game ‘Webster Says “Newt” Means Salamander’?”

© 2012, Valenta, All rights reserved.

To buy my book “Sitting on Cold Porcelain” click here

Politicians – The Mutants in Darwin’s Theory

By Rose A. Valenta

Uncle Harry came over for breakfast this morning. I was making corn fritters with maple syrup and the aroma travelled across our water-logged backyard into his bathroom, while he was getting a load off his mind.

He is not supposed to eat corn. The doctor told him that he has diverticulitis; he can’t digest American politics either, but Harry never listens to anyone.

This morning, he made divots in my yard with his flip-flops and walked into my kitchen looking like the cat that ate the canary.

“Got any left?” He asked.

“You know that you are not supposed to eat them.” I responded.

“Everything in moderation.” He said.

He had The Washington Post folded under one arm.

“That’s why you have diverticulitis.” I said. “You’re obsessed with politics.”

“I like to hit the newspaper with a bingo highlighter.” He said. “The ones with the orange dots should have gone to school to learn how to track manta rays, instead of majoring in political science.”

“Look, I know its gearing up for another down-pour, but can’t you call Dick to come over and play cards or something, instead of reading the Post? You guys like Uno and I’m not up to your political rants today.”

“I think you might be interested in what the Jane Goodall Research Center had to say about Romney’s high school bullying this morning.” He said.

“What, he’s being charged? The statute of limitations has run out on that one.”

“No, he’s in a modern hunter-gatherer group,” he said.

“Well, we all know that politicians are primates.”

“Seriously, lookey here:”

Read News Article

“Nice.” I said. There’s a mutant in Darwin’s theory.”

“Did you notice, ever since the Republicans voted against Santorum and the Democrats advocated gay marriage, people are into bipartisanship?” he asked. “And look, Biden thinks he’s working for President Clinton.”

“Harry, don’t get caught up in crazy. Do something bipartisan and let the cat out, before he pees on your dry flip-flop.”

Did The New York Times Inadvertently Find a Solution to Childhood Obesity?

by Rose A. Valenta

I was on YouTube yesterday, when I happened to see this terrific holiday video uploaded by The New York Times in 2006:

This morning, my friend, Erik Deckers, posted a rant on his blog Erik Deckers Laughing Stock about schools canceling bake sales because of childhood obesity. As a parent, he was angry that the school overstepped its bounds. I tend to agree with him.

Then, I began thinking about all the jump rope songs of my youth and how we used to play double dutch in the school yard during recess and after class:

I asked my mother for fifty cents
To see the elephant jump the fence
He jumped so high
He reached the sky
and didn't come back 'till the 4th of July

Cinderella dressed in yellow
Went upstairs
To kiss her fellow.
By mistake
She kissed a snake
How many doctors
Did it take?
Pepper: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10

Okay, so the lyrics are antiquated circa 1950s; but think about it. Why make food tasteless by removing all the “unhealthy” ingredients because some parents don’t encourage their kids to get outdoor exercise? I don’t know about you, but I’m rather fed up with food that tastes like cardboard. Real whipped cream has become an endangered species. I can still remember watching my grandmother make whipped cream – it was delicious and none of us were fat.

First, she would make jello; then she got out a mixer bowl and poured in the heavy cream. She added a teaspoon of vanilla extract and turned on the mixer. As soon as light peaks formed she began adding the sugar. Just before the whole thing turned into butter, she stopped the mixer and let us lick the beaters. After she put all the whipped cream in a refrigerator container, we got to fight over the mixer bowl. It took all of 10 minutes to make whipped cream and you just can’t beat the flavor.

We would then, run outside with visions of that night’s dessert running through our heads and put on the roller skates, or play jump rope, or ride our bikes, or play basketball. There were no calories left to put on weight.

At dinner, we ate healthy food and had dessert. If the sun was still out, we rounded up neighborhood friends and got more outdoor exercise; if not, we played interactive board games or cards. Then, we put on some Rock ‘n’ Roll and danced. We squeezed in the homework.

The Obama administration is going about wiping out childhood obesity all wrong. They should take a lesson from The New York Times and enlist the support of the entertainment industry. Someone like Cee Lo Green to cut a hit Jump Rope Song of the millennium:

I had a contraband turtle.
His name was Tiny Tim.
I put him in the bathtub
to see if he could swim.
He drank up all the water.
He ate the bar of soap.
He woke up in the morning
with a bubble in his throat.

or…

Yo Mama teeth so yellow
She can’t even get no fellow
How many tubes of toothpaste
Would it take?
Pepper: 10-20-30-40-50-60

Please, Mr. President, bring back the real whipped cream!

Sitting on Cold Porcelain

by Rose A. Valenta

It’s been a difficult day at the office and you're exhausted. Your eyes hurt from working on a computer all day, not to mention the crimp in your neck and back, and sore Maxine (escape key) finger.

You turn on the evening news to find out that all sorts of crazy things are happening in our world. Terrorists are trying to kill us, our Vice President made another gaffe at an important event, our political pundits are calling for impeachment, a famous designer has introduced a line of bullet-proof clothing, another politician has gotten himself involved in a sex scandal, PETA is making yet another smoker ad, a scientist wants to give Galileo a posthumous eye test on a stimulus grant, and the term “Brangelina” now refers to a gay variety show at the Boston Roxy; you know that because your 10-year-old grandson told you.

You try to find out if your v-chip works for news programming, as the kids are doing homework in front of the TV. They are not asking about protractors and math manipulatives.

You could describe the way you feel as “punch drunk,” only there are no Marquess of Queensberry rules here.

You get into bed feeling warm and cozy; your significant other is snoring loudly at your side. Icicles are forming outside. You fluff your pillows, turn on the heating blanket, set the alarm, and insert the ear-plugs - all is right with your world.

Then, at around 3:00 am, at the very beginning of your crucial Rapid Eye Movement (REM) sleep (the three-hour sound sleep window that keeps people from going crazy), you begin dreaming about soaking in a hot tub, you wake up suddenly before you pee yourself, make a mad dash into the bathroom, quickly squat, and find yourself - sitting on cold porcelain.

Realizing that the culprit is still sleeping soundly in the next room, totally unaware of your predicament, and probably dreaming about lunch with the guys at Hooters, you scream loudly, as if to wake up the dead or at least that slug stuck in a salt ring.

He comes running into the bathroom, completely naked and wild-eyed with a Colt 45, ready to protect his damsel in distress. He looks around quickly like a buck protecting his turf. He almost pees on the wall to mark it; then, he looks down and spots a puddle of water and his damsel, who is stuck in the commode.

You, his damsel, begin to spew a Dennis Miller monologue, worse than anything he has ever heard on the O'Reilly Factor, he aims, and you karate chop him. The weapon falls into the commode. It can't rust, so he stays up for an hour cleaning it out and oiling it. You are still beating his ear an hour into REM sleep. Both of you are red-eyed, resembling vampires. You go back to bed. There is still an hour left.

No, this is not a sneak preview of the next Super Bowl prize-winning GEICO caveman commercial. Some people call it Murphy's Law every time things go wrong. I feel justified calling it "Sitting on Cold Porcelain."

Click here to order it for $2.99 (less than a gallon of gas) at SMASHWORDS, in all digital formats: Kindle, Nook, eBook, Sony, PDF, etc.

You really don't want to miss reading this book.

Grandma Bans 'Dog the Bounty Hunter' and 'The Hunger Games'

by Rose A. Valenta

Remember the good old days, when you could turn on the UHF channel and watch Bishop Sheen on a Sunday? I really miss him. Our culture has suffered his loss. He was a great teacher, then everything went down-hill and they gave his chalk board to Glenn Beck, who started using it to teach fractured religion, before he quit his day job.

In those days, we went to Church every Sunday, and every day during Holy Week. We had respect for our elders, obeyed authority figures; and didn’t even know what flipping the bird meant, let alone use it to signal a traffic cop on foot.

Children had respect for their parents and grandparents, didn’t cuss in mixed company, didn’t expose their butt cracks in public, and used terms like “sir” and “ma’am,” instead of “dude” and “WTF?”

As a family, we were closer on rainy days by playing interactive games like Candy Land, Monopoly, Mr. Potato Head, Operation, poker, Scrabble, and Yatzee; not sitting solo in front of the TV, wearing headphones connected to an Xbox and swearing loud enough to wake up the dead.

We encouraged the older children to take at least 20 minutes out of their day to play Fish with younger siblings, not sacrifice them to The Hunger Games.

Some frustrated parents began giving their kids biblical names like Joshua, Jacob, Rebecca, and Ruth; only to find out their little demon was flipping the bird to the teacher in kindergarten class and got a tear drop tattoo at recess.

Keep them away from drugs? Right! The teachers are screaming for Ritalin by second grade. So, you’re faced with two choices: zombie or a drop-out.

The entertainment industry is corrupting our kids. All of it: movies, radio, TV, and video games. You have a better shot at hitting Mega Millions, than teaching culture to our kids. We've even banned "Dog the Bounty Hunter" in our house during Holy Week.

They should have Toastmasters for kids. At least that would get the “dude” and “bra” out of the vocabulary, right?

One teacher exposed two parents as being unfit, whom the defense attorney proved were not at fault because they both grew up watching Roadrunner cartoons. One of them got religion:



We’re screwed!

If You Are Not the Lead Dog, the View Never Changes

"If you are not the lead dog, the view never changes" ~ Robert Benchley

This famous quote by Robert Benchley is the inspiration for the newly formed
Philadelphia Chapter of the Robert Benchley Society - "The Lead Dog."

If you live in the Philadelphia area (virtual proximity is accepted) and would
like to join, please submit your membership dues (only $10) and inform the
president of the Robert Benchley Society that you are a Lead Dog. Meetings are held informally at no special time for cocktails at Dave and Busters in Philly. Dress is 1920s-40s attire, or not.

Join here

The Robert Benchley Society discussion group is on YahooGroups at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Benchley/

Please join us!

Limbaugh Responds to Contraceptive Controversy

"So, there I was on a blind date with a guy from Budapest at Le Bec Fin. There was no window in the ladies room to climb out, so I had to sit there and watch him perform a Fred Flintstone on the cuisse de poulet..." ~ Sitting on Cold Porcelain.

Are you sick of politics and the onslaught of primary fiascos, like the GOP drinking game "Let's Not Tell Rick Perry Where We Are Going Next"? Does it scare you that the only Republican candidate that seems experienced enough for the job is Newt? I still can't bring myself to vote for someone, who is named after a salamander. Somehow, the connotation scares me. Then you have to wonder - how many First Ladies will we have if Romney wins?

Plus, you have to consider that Ron Paul still thinks an Afghan is something made of granny squares that you throw over the back of a sofa.

Then, there are the birthers, who want to see Romney's birth certificate because they are convinced he is an illegal alien, born in a Mormon colony in Mexico, near the Sierra Madre.

Last, but not least, is Rush Limbaugh's radio response to the contraceptive controversy:



Here is an alternative, you can buy my book for $2.99 at Smashwords.com, stay home with a nice beverage, and enjoy yourself. Yes, it is in Kindle, Nook, Sony, eBook formats, as well as PDF and others.

Reading my book is equivalent to watching about 162 standup comedy routines. I have a parrot named Peg Leg Pete, yes he is disabled. He makes an appearance in one essay because he only knows two words "Who Dat?" It came in handy while we were champing at the bit for Super Bowl 44 two years ago, before my husband got all upset during the power outage just before kick-off. Yep, he was so upset that his testicles receded and he was rolling around in front of the powerless entertainment system in pain. Is there a cure for that? Nullo modo!

You will also enjoy the "No, Virginia..." letter that was sent out around Christmas time because Frosty The Inappropriate Snowman was bragging about having a porn collection, rather than remaining in character with a cute button nose and corncob pipe.

Then, we all enjoyed watching Obama bitch-slap Congress during his State of the Union Address and Joe Biden told the press where Cheney's "secret undisclosed location" was because a reporter got him drunk. You know how that goes, "candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker."

Did I sell you yet?

Okay, you've already seen the Numa Numa Guy, right? ("Nu ma, nu ma iei, nu ma, nu ma, nu ma iei"). My friend, Annette Giordano, gets ticked off when she watches The O'Reilly Factor and Bill won't let his guests get a word in, so she gets frustrated and does an Italian Numa Numa Guy in front of the TV, right in his face. She is only one of the weird friends I have.

Then, there is my grandson, who began to learn about life during the Clinton Administration. You remember that media fiasco 24x7. He was doing homework in front of the TV and comes into the kitchen asking us all about protractors, sexual harassment, and oral sex. Yeah, well, he recently managed to CLEP a sex test and found John Edwards on YouTube.

The close
Are you wondering what event made our economy go to the dogs?
It didn't happen overnight. It has taken decades to sink our economic ship.

What was the first leak in the bilge?

Actually, it all started in 1944, when our Democratic President, FDR, sent a Navy destroyer to the Aleutian Islands to pick up his dog, Fala, who promptly peed in the bilge with excitement at a taxpayer cost of $20 million.

Sold?
Click here to order it for $2.99 (less than a gallon of gas) at SMASHWORDS, in all digital formats: Kindle, Nook, eBook, Sony, PDF, etc.

You really don't want to miss reading this book.

As if that isn't enough, I teamed up with Giovanni "G-MAN" Gelati and produced a digital short story for you. It is a face-off in a Philadelphia comedy club titled "Dueling Microphones."

Click here to buy it at The Kindle Store at Amazon for only 99 cents! You will love it!
We are trying to get it into the top 10, so help us out and buy a copy.

Thanks!

Rosie