LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 763

If we could truly expect the unexpected, there would be no surprises. Not ever. Expect to be surprised. If you are not surprised quite often in this life, you're not getting your money's worth.

INTERVIEW WITH BENNY THE DEAD GUY

As a public service, bobcrespo.com from time to time offers interviews with prominent people. You can check our archives for our interviews with Mick Jagger, Willie Randolph, Satan's son, Bush The Younger, Santa Claus and others, as well as our groundbreaking sit-down with the great Elmer Fudd. Today's interview is not of a famous person, but more of the man-in-the-street variety, or more accurately, the man-in-the-casket. For the first time ever, bobcrespo.com has received permission to interview a dead person, to see what insights we can get from beyond the grave. Meet Benny The Dead Guy:

Bobcrespo.com: So, Benny, this is it. What can you tell readers of bobcrespo.com about the service you received here at Chillum's Funeral Home?

Benny The Dead Guy:

Bobcrespo.com: Okay, Benny, we'll take that as a no comment, and maybe a head's up to the folks here at Chillum's. What about your funeral, Benny? Were you pleased with the turnout?

Benny The Dead Guy:

Bobcrespo.com: By the expression on Benny's face, it appears there were some no-shows. Care to name names, Benny?

Benny The Dead Guy:

Bobcrespo.com: Very cagey, Ben. Your expression says it all, they know who they are. So tell us, are you looking forward to your dirt nap?

Benny The Dead Guy:

Bobcrespo.com: You're right, Benny, that was just wrong and didn't deserve an answer. Sorry. I suppose it's difficult to contemplate eternity, even after you're dead, eh?

Benny The Dead Guy:

Bobcrespo.com: You're not helping me out much here with your knowing silence, Benny, it just doesn't translate well to the written page. And your body language is just a little too subtle, pal. The readers here are expecting some insight into death. Can you help us out here?

Benny The Dead Guy:

Bobcrespo.com: Okay, if that's how you want to play it, fine! I'll just throw out some autosuggestions, and you twitch or somethning if it rings a bell, do nothing if I'm wrong. Here goes: Did you see God?

Benny The Dead Guy:

Bobcrespo.com: Okay, not yet, eh? There must be some sort of screening process before you get to meet the Big Guy. Makes sense... okay then... how about that white light we hear so much about from people with near-death experiences?

Benny The Dead Guy:

Bobcrespo.com: No? I guess that death, like life, is a different experience for everyone. Try this on for size: Pearly Gates!

Benny The Dead Guy:

Bobcrespo.com: Doesn't ring a bell,eh? So tell us, Benny the Dead Guy. what exactly has been your experience with death?

Benny The Dead Guy:

Bobcrespo.com: What about harp music? Or is more like cellos, flutes and violins?

Benny The Dead Guy:

Bobcrespo.com: Don't be so coy, Roy, our readers want to know! What's it like to wake up dead?

Benny The Dead Guy:

Bobcrespo.com: Well, that does it, Benny The Dead Guy! If you don't want to cooperate, why didn't you just say so in the first place?

Well, that didn't work out as planned. Funny, Benny was all for it before he died, figuring he'd be the first one to give us all a shout out from the other side, but went all unresponsive and silent on us. Apparently something changed his mind. Wonder what that was? Until the next time, this has been an exclusive interview from bobcrespo.com with Benny The Dead Guy.

Benny The Dead Guy: What an asshole! I thought he'd never shut up and go away.

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 762

Don't shoot the messenger, unless of course he's a really annoying messenger. After all, there's only so much one can take on top of bad news. Bearers of ill tidings, tread lightly.

THINGS NOT TO DO WHEN SNOWBOUND

For a great many citizens of the northeastern parts of the United States, the past couple of days have found them snowbound by a vast blizzard. This was one those doozies where even snow ploughs are getting stuck in the drifts. Any thoughts of getting out and about are quashed with a quick peek out the window. So now you're stuck in the house for a couple of days, wondering what to do with yourself, maybe thinking you can catch up on all those household chores you've been meaning to get around to.

Or not. You can shovel your sidewalk and dig out your car since that's the reflexive thing to do, but this time you're not going anywhere until the snow plows reach your street, hopefully before you miss too much work and everyone realizes that the place functions just fine without you and whatever it is you do all day long. So there's that pressure to deal with. How to pass the time?

Well, we here at bobcrespo.com figure "to each, his own " when it comes to dealing with cabin fever. Some prefer drinking themselves numb, others curl up with a good book and a cup of hot chocolate, some of us build snowmen with the little ones and then go inside for board games and jigsaw puzzles, while some people actually do catch up with their domestic chores (Go figure those nuts!). There are some housebound activities, however, we feel are important to avoid. Don't go here:

Law & Order Marathons: At this point every American has seen every episode of Law & Order at least 5 times. Besides, Law & Order Marathons are reserved for bouts of insomnia and aggressive procrastination.

Home Remodeling: Who cares if you've got all the tools and materials handy? They've been there for months waiting for you to get off your ass, Christmas has come and gone, and now you want to make the house all dusty? Dream on, Bob The Builder, and go shovel the driveway!

Learn a New Language: Unless you live alone, no one wants to hear your endless mispronunciation of getting directions to the rest room in German.

Rearrange your closets: You just did that, digging out your boots, parkas, gloves, scarves and snow shovels. Get used to the wet newspapers, the clutter by the door and not being able to find anything until further notice.

Practice your "Flaming Batons" juggling act: This one is self-explanatory, with a double advisory for those with real Christmas trees, which by this time are generally a headline waiting to happen.

Fix the Fireplace: There's nothing like a cozy fire to while away the snowbound hours with loved ones, but if you cannot remember the last time you actually used your fireplace, this is not an optimal time to find out whether or not your carbon monoxide detector is working.

Read or watch anything about The Donner Party: Nothing good can come of this.

Make life-altering decisions: You're snowbound, and so not in your right mind. You're covered in black soot, your head is spinning from Law & Order episodes, German lessons and visions of cannibalism. This is not the time to decide you really want to chuck it all and join the circus as a juggler.

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 761

Everywhere you go you see the same thing; people, more than you can count. You'd have to work pretty damned hard not to make at least a few friends

PREDICTIONS FOR THE YEAR 2010

Christmas is over and you know what that means; It's Prediction Time! Once again, bobcrespo.com is on the cutting age of sure-fire predictions guaranteed to come true. How do we do it, you ask? Simple, we don't bother looking into the future, that's for cranks and gullible fools. We go right for the jugular, folks, and give you predictions for the past year! In 50 years, who's going to have the better record for predicting events, the visionary crackpots or bobcrespo.com? Move over, Nostradamus, and we're not giving it to you in riddles like he did, either, we're naming names and spelling them right! Aron Hister, my ass! These things will really happen! Here goes:

Charlie Sheen will get into hooker, drugs and booze trouble for the umpteenth time, resulting in no consequences for his freedom and lucrative acting career.

Lindsay Lohan will act just like Charlie Sheen, resulting in much negative publicity, jail time, forced rehab and a stalled career. Can you say "Double Standard," boys and girls?

Continuing its rich tradition of giving the job of Speaker of The House to their most useless and absurd member, The U.S. House of Representatives will reward Representative John Boehner with the Speakership of the upcoming 112th Congress for buffoonery above and beyond the call of duty.

President Obama will finally get the hang of getting his policies ratified by Congress at the end of the year, after it dawned on him that all he had to do to win Republican votes was to bribe the greedy sons-of-bitches.

The San Francisco Giants will win the World Series behind the pitching of starter TIm Lincecum and closer Brian Wilson, the longest shot and most unheralded team to do so in years.

An oddball semi-albino from Australia, the enigmatic Julian Assange, will attempt to shake up the world by releasing hundreds of thousands of classified documents on his website, Wikileaks.com. War crimes, gross stupidity, pettiness and greed on the part of world governments, multinational corporations, Big Religion and Big Media are spread over the internet for all to see, and the world will react with a rousing "Ho-hum."

Iran and North Korea will edge closer to building their own nuclear weapons, and generally annoy the crap out of the rest of the world for no apparent reason. Their respective leaders, Mahmoud Ahmadinijad and Kim Jong Il, take turns vying for the coveted Most Annoying Little Prick on Earth Award.

Sarah Palin, out to wrest the Fox News Award for Stupidest Public Figure from Glen Beck, will pick a fight with Michelle Obama for having the gall to encourage American children to eat healthier food. The First Lady won't seem to notice and will continued her despicable leftist campaign to promote nutrition, education, personal responsibility and excellence among America's youth. Ms. Palin will rally the fat, ignorant, underachieving demographic for support in this matter.

Not to be outdone in the Public Stupidity Department, Glen Beck organizes a rally designed to "rededicate America to God," in spite of the fact that this is illegal. Claiming a spiritual kinship to the late Martin Luther King, his "rally" will draw about 20,000 lunatics, racists, gun nuts and Christian Fascists, accompanied by 80,000 reporters.

British Petroleum will attempt to create the biggest petroleum reserve on earth by displacing all the water in the Gulf of Mexico with crude oil. Those living along the southern coast of the United States will strongly object and the plan is scrapped.

The President, Congress and the Federal regulatory agencies will forget to prosecute the vast majority of criminals in the financial industries or to implement new rules to prevent them from continuing the fraudulent practices and outright theft that blew up the entire world economy in 2008. These titans of high finance will show their gratitude by implementing a new round of predatory practices while helping themselves to hundreds of millions of dollars of other people's money in the form of bonuses. Asked about this glaring omission, President Obama simply said; "Slipped my mind. My bad!"

The two wars in Afghanistan and Iraq will drag on, marked by insurgencies, suicide bombings, government corruption and gross incompetence, and the complete absence of capturing Osama bin Laden, the only reason for both wars in the first place. The Army tired of that game of Where's Waldo years ago in favor of a strategy of having our soldiers walk around with machine guns or ride in trucks waiting for the next suicide bomber or ragtag group of insurgents to strike, while simultaneously bribing local warlords with millions in shrink-wrapped bundles of cash not to suicide bomb or ambush our soldiers. President Obama will like this idea so much that he will send in 30,000 more American troops and billions more in bribe money, and that will be so much fun he will consider expanding the war into Pakistan.

The Tea Party, originally created and controlled by Republicans to do the dirty work of spreading fear and disinformation, will turn the tables on the GOP by taking it over completely and purging its ranks of anyone with either brains or integrity. With their new-found influence, the Tea Partiers will begin a campaign to convince dumb guys that the South really won the Civil War, America's State Religion used to be Baptist until it was changed to Islam by our Kenyan President, and that poor people are conspiring to claim squatter's rights to a half-million foreclosed homes.

There will be a devastating earthquake in Haiti that will nearly destroy the capital city of Port Au Prince, and after an overwhelming influx of international aid, Haiti will be left to rot and die while our computer-shortened attention spans move on the the next shiny object.

Big media will create a firestorm when it attempts to goose ratings during a slow news cycle by objecting to the location a mosque in Manhattan that had been under construction for over a year, claiming it is too close to where the World Trade Center used to be. A few judiously-placed hate slogans will be all it takes to get the squeakiest wheels in the Tea party to revive their Brown Shirts sidewalk act and take it on the road. From that point on the stores will write themselves and the advertising revenue will roll in for coverage of the "Ground Zero Mosque," as it will come to be called.

There will be 41 miners rescued from a collapsed coal mine in Chile after being buried a mile underground for 69 days. Upon emerging from what they thought we would be their tomb on October 13, the first question all of them will ask their rescuers will be: "You people knew about these rescue pods before the collapse?"

The Supreme Court will finally make it official that multinational corporations now have their own special designation; U.S. Megacitizen, and as such are freely allowed to buy election results. When asked for a clarification of this ruling, Chief Justice John Roberts will explain: "In America, the law treats all people as equals. Megacitizens are like people, only more equal."

Dubai will complete their mile-high tower, The Burg Dubai, just as the last of the Eurotrash skip out on their opulent condos in the middle of the night, sticking Dubai with the tab for 5 years worth of their credit-fueled decadence. Heads will roll at the palace.

The Winter Olympics will be held in the nation that invented winter, Canada. Few will notice.

Emulating Ancient China, the State if Arizona will erect a wall along the Mexican border. It won't work any better at keeping out immigrants than the Great Wall did, but canny Arizona investors figure it will pay off in big tourist dollars in about a thousand years.

More that 20 million people will die a slow horrible death in 2010. No emergency will be declared, no headlines generated and very little help will be provided for the victims of starvation, 85% of them children under 5.

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 760

Nobody loves you like your dog, who sees only perfection. The cat, on the other hand, sees a whole lot of room for improvement.

TWITTER TO SANTA CLAUS

It's never to early too get your letter to Santa Claus sent. Early bird catches the worm and all that. Why wait until December when he's inundated with millions of requests for Tickle Me Elmo dolls and iPhones? So the thinking here is that this year we get the drop on America's retailers and Greeting Card companies that kick off Christmas season simultaneously with Halloween, and treat it with about the same reverence. So, in the spirit of modernism, let's Tweet Santa our unreasonable demands this year. Outside of his mode of transportation, Santa Claus has always kept up with the latest technology. How else can he keep track of the exploding population? He's all about the technology and cutting his work load.

He's got that whole naughty and nice deal down a science these days, having subcontracted that work to a statistics company in India. This way he's free to read all the e-mails and twitters he gets requesting this gift or that and can quickly download who's deserving of an X Box who gets the lump of coal. He actually encourages the use of Twitter due to its electronically enforced brevity, that 140 character limit. So, in the interest of science and in the spirit of Christmas, bobcrespo.com has collected some of the early Tweets to Santa Claus from some prominent people. An added bonus is that this early in the season he even has the time to reply to the tweets. Here goes:

Santa - Thanks for the bonus last year. Have already spent it and am hoping to get a bigger one this Xmas, LOL. - The Big Bank Dawg
Don't hold your breath, Dawg. Looks like you'll have to make due on your $3 mil salary this year. The Mrs. is still PO'd about the millions in cash I gave away last season. - Santa

Dear Santa - You are my BFF and I just know you'll get me a new reality show! The one I have really stinks. - Paris
Dear Paris - Not to be a spoil sport, my dear, but haven't all your shows really stunk? Maybe the problem isn't the show, kiddo. Just a thought. - Santa

Santafier - Hopin' you could see your way clear to get me one of them nifty jet pilot costumes. Mr. Cheney took mine away when I was done Presidentiating. - Dubya
Dubya - You are still one dumb son-of-a-bitch and I'll always regret my gift to you of the 2000 election. Lose my Twitter address. -Santa

Claus - Here's what I want and it's a fabulous idea: You and me, reality show: "Trump Vs. Claus." We battle it out for who gets to sponsor Xmas. - The Donald
Dear The - I'll have you for breakfast, pompous fool. You're on! Only we call it "Claus Vs Trump." - The Santa

Claus - Title change is a deal breaker. Everybody knows the Trump name represents quality and fabulousness. - The Donald
The - Get real, Perry Combover! I was a household name before you dreamt of your first trophy wife, who if you recall, was a Christmas present from yours truly! Deal's off! - Claus

Claus - You'll be hearing from my attorneys, fat man. - The Donald
Dear Chump - Bring 'em on! You think Santa's afraid of your lawyers? I'll cross you all off my list! The Claus

Dear Santa, I know this might not be up your alley, but can you maybe slow down my wife's aging process? She's starting to look like my Mom and my Twitter fans are getting creeped out. - Ashton Kutcher
Dear Ashton - Who told you to marry granny, you dope? I'm Santa Claus, not Jesus! Have you seen Mrs. Claus? Best I can do is a couple of rounds of Botox treatments or a splashy divorce, your call - Santa

Santa - I think I'll go with the Botox deal. There's always next Christmas for the divorce. - Ashton
Asston - You greedy young punk! Just for that I'm giving your wife a handsome young pool boy this year who adores older women. - Santa

Dear Santa - Thanks for the new liver. One drawback, though. It has no Aps, can only do regular liver functions. Can anything be done about that this Christmas? -Steve Jobs
Steve - What can be done is you can thank God, you arrogant buffoon! A man died to give you that liver! And this Christmas you're getting some grown-up clothes. You can't be the boy genius in blue jeans for 30 years. -Santa

Dear Santa - I don't want anything for myself, only for you to rain hell fire on the liberals, the non-believing pagans and the Socialists who are staining my America. -Glen Beck
Dear Glen - You're scaring me, boy. Seek help ASAP! - Santa

Santa - I was wondering if you could provide me with something to do, maybe spark another race riot ala Rodney King or something big like that. Since Obama got elected no one listens when I yell at white folks. - Jesse Jackson
Dear Jesse - Get over it. Santa has given you many charismatic and oratorical gifts over the years and you used them to divide instead of unite. I gave you Dr. King as a teacher, too, but you didn't pay attention. This year it's a bottle of Old Spice and a red tie like the rest of the retired Grandpas. -Santa

Infidel Dog - As a Muslim I do not believe in you, but can' help but notice the many gifts you have bestowed upon America, or as we like to call it, The Great Satan. Can you give me the global voice I so deserve? - Ayatollah Ali Khameini, Supreme Leader of Iran
Dear El Supremo - Sure, you can make world headlines in a flash if you admit there was a holocaust, stop trying to enslave your women and ditch the stonings and beheadings already. Maybe lose the Merlin the Magician robe too. - Santa

Infidel Dog - Take all my fun away, Pawn of Satan! I knew you were in league with the enemies of God. I shall issue a fatwah upon you! - Ali Khameini
El Supremo - A fatwah? I'm already pretty fat, but go right ahead. The more of me, the merrier, as Mrs. Claus likes to say. My gift to you this Christmas will be a gift to the entire world. I will leave you unchanged so we all continue to be amused by your whacky antics. Jim Carey's got nothing on you, Supremo, LOL! - Santa Claus, Supreme Leader of The North Pole

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 759

People who tell you that what you see clearly with your own eyes is not really what is happening are either blind, nuts or politicians.

MORE DISTURBING REVELATIONS AND TIPPITY TOP TOP SECRET DOCUMENTS FROM WICKEDLEAK.NET!

Tallyrand D'Antoine here, from a new undisclosed location, far, far away from my previous undisclosed location. A tip to my pursuers: don't bother trying to trace this URL address since this is being written on a disposable cell phone, which is quite a chore with this tiny friggin' Mickley Mouse keyboard, let me tell you! Anyway, wickedleak.net is beyond your reach, Big Brother! Our geeks are better than your geeks, and we know who yours are, so there! The following is a synopsis of some of the sensitive documents hidden from you by Big Government, Big Business, Big Religion and Big Media. But truth, like the sun, the moon and the stars, cannot long remain hidden. And to gain the support of the attention-deprived, the strategically placed bold lettering allows us to insinuate all sorts of other terrible things without a shred of proof! We have come into possession of corroborating documentation of the following truths:

Mob boss Sam Giancanna was the man behind the assassination of John F. Kendall of Ames, Iowa in October, 1963 when his hired hit men misunderstood his whispered instructions. Mr. Kendall owned a sporting goods store and had never shown the slightest interest in either politics or the Mafia, and until now this case has gone unsolved.

Since he left office in 2000, former President Bill Clinton has slept with the wives of most of the NATO heads of state, and was asked to leave France after a lengthy "World Hunger Seminar" with the French First Lady, Carla Bruni.

The phones on President George W. Bush's desk weren't connected.

Former Speaker of The House of Representatives back in to '90s, Newt Gingrich, got very upset when his fellow Republicans removed a clause in their Contract With America that stated that "the party of the first part, Newton Gingrich, shall be henceforth referred to as 'Grand Exalted Eminence' instead of Mr. Speaker."

The management of CNN realized early on that a 24/7/365 news channel would have a hard time finding enough news content to sustain interest. Internal e-mails and memos prove that they started a "News Generation Department" that instigated wars in several small nations, purchased sea-worthy craft and automatic weapons for Somali Pirates and sent operatives to Hollywood armed with anti-inhibitor drugs to administer to Lindsay Lohan, investments that paid off handsomely in sensational headlines.

The Catholic Church has long suppressed authentic chronicles of Christ's "missing years," between the ages of 10 and 30, that describe his career as a successful professional clown for children's birthday parties, performing all sort of miracles for the tots' amusement. "Jesus: The Balloon Animal Years," is now available at wickedleak.net.

Kim Jong Il of North Korea is the president of the Justin Bieber Fan Club, East Asia Chapter, and has offered young Mr. Bieber the chance to replace his fat idiotic son as his eventual successor if he takes the name Kimjustin Jong Il II.

Playboy Magazine offered Sarah Palin a million dollars to pose naked, but Playboy readers chipped in to pay Ms. Palin $2 million to turn them down.

In Russia, Vladimir Putin (CIA codename: Stalin Lite), has issued an executive order making it illegal to point out that Russia isn't scaring the crap out of anyone anymore.

Surprising even his closest intimates, former President George W. Bush has chosen his official portrait for his Presidential Library; an oil painting of himself and his "special friend," Saudi Prince Abdullah, sharing a milk shake with 2 straws and holding hands at the local ice cream parlor in Crawford, Texas.

When John Roberts was sworn in as Chief Justice of The Supreme Court, his first official act was to hire Bert, the courtroom security guard on "Judge Judy" in order to "add some pizzazz to this friggin' mausoleum." Roberts also vowed to donate half his wardrobe budget to charity since he wouldn't be needing pants anymore, telling anyone who would listen that "the best part of The Black Robe is going commando." When asked about this in an interview with Atlantic Monthly, he further explained; "It frees my mind too, you know."

Tallyrand D'Antoine signing off and moving on. Visit bobcrespo.com for new Top Secret revelations that the powerful ruling elite wishes to keep secret. We know things....

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 758

Truth and beauty is the quest of great art, no small achievement considering the materials at hand.

SOME LESSER KNOWN LEAKED DOCUMENTS FROM WICKEDLEAK.NET

Tallyrand D'Antoine here, of wickedleak.net, reporting from an undisclosed location. The people here at bobcrespo.com have shown themselves to be the only major website willing to risk their necks to reveal the truth to the world, and so have graciously offered wickedleak a forum after we were shut down by the authorities. We have in our possession many sensitive documents and e-mails that could prove embarrassing to powerful world leaders in various governments, multinational corporations, show business and the mass media. The incarceration and persecution of Julian Assange will not slow the flood of confidential documents to the public, this we vow! The following is a synopsis of some of the most volatile revelations we have uncovered. Judge for yourself:

President Barack Obama buys his cigarettes over the internet from an Indian reservation in Oklahoma, avoiding local and federal taxes.

Incoming Speaker of the House John Boehner's orange skin is the result of a DNA experiment gone terribly wrong. He was aiming for Grinch green. And the actual pronunciation of his name really is "boner," just like his college classmates called him.

The banking/investment giant, Goldman Sachs, has made an aggressive bid to acquire the U.S. Treasury, or at least that portion of it not already in its possession.

It turns out that the TV program, "The X-Files" was in fact a documentary made from U.S. Government archives about actual cases and real people.

The President of China, Hu Jintao, has a Twitter account under the name "Candypants from Malibu" with a million and a half followers.

Secretary of State Hillary Clinton had her husband fitted with a sophisticated electronic GPS bracelet disguised as a wristwatch to monitor his movements, but after only a week or so, former President Bill Clinton short-circuited it in a bubble bath with several interns at a Holiday Inn in Idaho.

The owner of Fox News, Rupert Murdoch, circulated an internal memo banning his on-air employees from using the term "creepy old douchebag."

The late Senator Ted Kennedy did not die of brain cancer as was widely reported, but instead succumbed to rickets.

Former Alaska Governor turned Cheerleader-in-Chief for the Tea Party, Sarah Palin, has said that if she is elected President in 2012, she will straighten out this county in 2 years, then resign to pursue her true passion; taxidermy. So far none of her aides has had the heart to tell her that this is not exactly what most people have in mind when the conversation turns to preserving endangered species.

Bull O'Really, Cable TV blowhard, prevailed over Headrush Limberger in a nude wrestling match in early 2010 to determine who will be the leader of the neo-con movement and, flush with victory, has challenged the #1 contender, Glen Bucks, to a cage match for the undisputed Flabbyweight title.

Muammar Khadaffy of Libya, accused of keeping company with a Ukranian prostitute, has vehemently denied the charge, claiming his Ukranian "nurse" is simply his fashion designer and Executive Wardrobe Consultant.

With Ted Kennedy gone, Keith Olberman of MSNBC has contacted the Guinness Book of World Records to claim the "Largest Human Head" title. Lawyers for Barry Bonds are disputing Olberman's claim.

In what could prove to be a devastating blow tho the fashion industry, it has been revealed that industry-leading women's fashion designer Tommy Stinkfinger is actually heterosexual, an unprecedented development in the world of Big Fashion. Faced with evidence of an actual wife and several children, look for Mr. Stinkfinger to hold a press conference in the near future announcing that he is out of the closet.

Mayor Michael Bloomberg of New York City has declined to run for President in 2012, citing "unfinished business." Wickedleak has discovered the real reason, a little known Constitutional "height requirement" for presidents. Unfortunately for Mr. Bloomberg (who is actually in HO Scale), he can neither be president, nor can he ride the Cyclone roller coaster in Coney island.

Another vertically-challenged American politician, the diminutive Senator Joe Biden, uses old copies of the Constitution to stand on when speaking in public, not so much to make himself taller but simply to show his complete and utter contempt for that document.

Glen Beck is not a real person but a creation of TV screenwriter David Mills of "NYPD" fame, who calls him "my best character since Andy Sipowitz." He is played on TV by the Chicago-based, former infomercial actor, Lance Boyle.

When he was America's Dictator for 8 years, Dick Cheney was awarded his weight in gold Krugerrands every month, which he then had melted down and shaped into various everyday items by skilled craftsmen, things like tea cups, a chess set, a comb, eyeglasses, a set of golf clubs andthe hotgunhe used to shoot his friend in the face just to see what it felt like.

President Obama has nominated his daughter Malia for Undersecretary of Education, citing the need for someone with "direct experience" with the nation's education system, or as he puts it; "who better than a schoolgirl?"

That is all for now, readers. If the powers-that-be do not shut down bobcrespo.com, you can look forward to even more startling revelations from wickedleak.net. This is Tallyrand D'Antoine signing off for now and moving to a new undisclosed location. The truth is out there...

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 757

If nobody loves you when you're down and out, odds are you weren't exactly Mr. Wonderful when you were riding high.

CHRISTMAS GIFTS THAT DIDN'T MAKE THE GRADE

Ah Christmas, that holy celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ, heralding sentiments of peace on earth, love, joy and good will towards our fellow man coupled with an orgiastic celebration of retail consumption. What's not to love? The gaudy decorations, the earnest caroling, the sumptuous feasts and all that shopping! How better to express it than it's the most wonderful time of the year? It's Christmas time, gosh darn it, and if you don't feel good, better or best, then there must be something radically wrong with your curmudgeonly ass! So get out there and buy some damned presents for your loved ones. Just avoid these less-than-stellar gifts:

Air Bagpipe Hero: A virtual music game letting players pretend they are the lead bagpiper in the local Police Marching Band. All the great bagpipe tunes are included, like "Amazing Grace" and all the rest of them that sound just like "Amazing Grace" when played on bagpipes.

Tickle Me Tiger: A Barbie and Ken-type doll/action figure of Tiger Woods, Mattel Toy Company figured to clean up this Christmas with this toy of the most popular golfer ever, packaged with a miniature set of golf clubs. After the scandal hit, they tried to recoup their losses by packaging each Tiger figure with one of a set of 13 look-alike "Bimbo Mistress Barbie" dolls with sexy cocktail waitress outfits, evening gowns or lingerie, but toy retailers have been slow to embrace the concept.

iCuffLinks: Apple computers finally went too far with their i-products, and the iCufflinks may be their worst idea ever. With one cufflink as the speaker and the other as the video screen and music player, these things are just a tad too tiny.

Stuffed Endangered Species: The people who marketed these real dead animals weren't getting the concept of "saving" endangered species when they figured people would like to have a genuine stuffed Polar Bear, Snow Leopard, Brown Spider Monkey or Bald Eagle in their parlor before they disappear. The only ones who placed any orders were the Palin family of Alaska. Some retailers just don't think things all the way through.

Edible Play Dough: Bowing to the inevitable, the makers of Play Dough finally took the next logical step and is now making "Edible Playdough," which tastes exactly like the original (not too bad, really, if memory serves) but is an actual food substance with all the required daily vitamins per serving.

The Shamwow Diaper Blanket: The ultimate couch potato's dream, a sleeved blanket you wear while you lay around the house that doubles as a super-absorbent diaper, eliminating the exhausting chore of walking to the toilet, often two entire rooms away from the couch, or even more daunting, up a flight of stairs! Sales were hurt by the fact that the target customers were too lazy to even click the mouse of their computer to order them, saving valuable energy to operate their TV remotes.

Junior's First Gun: Some say that firearms manufacturers have crossed a line with this red, white and blue lightweight but very real pistol built for the hand of a three year-old. Gun retailers defend the product as an educational toy intended for fire arms training and is sold with blank rounds, with real bullets only available with parental permission. The company is having a hard time keeping up with the orders.

Chanel #4: There is a reason why the world's most famous perfume is called "Chanel #5." The first four attempts resulted in very foul-smelling concoctions that attracted unwanted attention from leg-humping dogs. The marketers of Chanel #4 are figuring to cash in on a craze for retro fashion items, mounting an expensive advertising campaign aimed at the dim-witted children of rich people, and are actually doing quite well with it. Keep your distance from Yuppie trash this season.

Artificial Laps: This product is actually a practical invention, a small portable platform that really fat people can strap to their knees with handy velcro straps in order to have an actual "lap" for their laptop computers. So far there have been few takers.

Computo-cycle: This "simulated bicycle game" is an interactive computer game that lets children have the sensation of riding a real bicycle without the danger of leaving the couch. By the makers of "Artificial Laps" and "Shamwow Diaper Blankets."

Lego: There's nothing different about Lego after all these years, but it's been around long enough for us to know that it is one of the lamest and most frustrating toys ever, impossible to build something that looks like anything. Lego has created more disturbed and obsessed individuals than even Etch-A-Sketch or Pick-Up-Sticks.

Chia Pubes: Marketed by the Chia Pet people as a joke adult gift, Chia Pubes comes with either a clay penis or vagina, and as usual grows a green moldy looking weed for pubic hair. All in all, not funny and kind of disturbing.

Mister Parsnip Head: The Nutrition Police are getting a little crazy and have introduced this crazy toy as a healthy alternative Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head. Kids will like it about as much as they do real parsnips.

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 756

Pay no mind to barking dogs or fools, it only encourages them.

INTERVIEW WITH SANTA CLAUS

Well Ho Ho Ho, people. Guess who I ran into the other day in Manhattan? Good old Kris Kringle himself, Santa Claus! He was in town making some last minute preparations for his big night on Christmas Eve when he loads up his sleigh with toys for all the good little boys and girls, hitches up his reindeer and flies off through the night from his headquarters in the North Pole, completing his journey around the world by Christmas morning. Pretty impressive if you ask me. I've often wondered how Santa manages this miraculous task with an old sleigh and what must be some pretty old reindeer at this point.
He's been doing this routine for centuries now and the old guy's still got a nimble spring in his step. He's a little short, maybe around five-two, five-three, tops, and as round as you'd expect. His snow white beard is immaculately groomed and the trademark twinkle in his eye is still gleaming with delight. The only disconcerting thing about him when we met for the interview is that he wasn't sporting the red suit and fur-lined cap, instead wearing a smart corduroy blazer over a turtleneck and a pair of jeans. On his feet were a pair of Gucci loafers and he wore no cap at all. He explained that the red suit was for Christmas night only and besides, he was here on business, doing a final field test on his new GPS system.
BC: "Santa, you use a satellite navigation system?
SC: "Of course. What's the point of being Santa if you can't get all the latest toys?"
BC: "Oh. How did you used to do it?"
SC: "By the stars, just like the old sailors. It was a real hassle but I was younger then and a bit of a cowboy at the reins, if you know what I mean. The reindeer were younger too so we really put the pedal to the metal."
BC: "You still have the same reindeer?"
SC: "Sure. We're magic, you know. How else could we do what we do on Christmas Eve? And how else could I have the same reindeer for centuries?"
BC: "Makes sense. How about the elves? Are they magic, too?"
SC: "I wish. No, they're mortals, regular elves with regular life spans. Elves are the only ones willing to live and work at the North Pole. Those people don't mind the cold at all, and they're darn good craftsmen. If only they didn't drink so much..."
BC: "The elves are drunks?"
SC: "Not much else to do in the frozen north, my friend. I try to keep them occupied, you know. I've got a bowling alley, a heated pool, ball fields, a billiards hall and a couple of gymnasiums up there for them. But then that darned long polar night descends, six months of darkness... That's when the drinking and the fist fights start, and then they start hitting on each others' old ladies... it gets pretty ugly sometimes."
BC: "Ever think of relocating?"
SC: "Sure, lots of times, but the price of real estate is sky high. You have no idea how big an operation I'm running up there; toy factories, electronics assemblies, a whole division just for doll's clothes, a leather works for baseball gloves and footballs, to say nothing of the housing I need for all the elves and Mrs. Claus and myself and the stables for the reindeer."
BC: "I can see where a move might be a major undertaking."
"SC: "You said it. Sometimes I'm tempted to just contract it all out to China like Wal-Mart and chill out all year."
BC: "Santa, you can't be serious!"
SC: "Just dreaming out loud, my friend. No, Santa's got to do things like Santa does things and that's that. It just wouldn't be the same."
BC: "That's a relief. The elves still make everything by hand?"
SC: "Heck, no! I certainly don't go overboard with tradition. State of the art, Santa's workshop is, state of the art! We've got laser-guided power tools, computer-coordinated assembly lines, robot welders like in the car factories, automated gift wrapping machines, all sorts of modern gizmos!"
BC: "When did all this happen?"
SC: "Son, there's been a population explosion these past few centuries in case you haven't noticed. Elves are not exactly rabbits when it comes to breeding so I only have a small workforce. Automation was the only way to go.
BC: "But you still read the letters from the kids and make a list of who's naughty and nice, right?"
SC: "Bob, you've been hitting the egg nog and brandy again, haven't you? Didn't I tell you there's been a population explosion? Nowadays I have a computerized database to keep track of who's naughty and who's nice and which kid wants what presents and where they live nowadays. Don't forget that plenty of people move around a lot these days. Years ago I had Bill Gates' people work me up a foolproof program that keeps track of all that."
BC: "That must have cost you a pretty penny."
SC: "No way. Gates did it for old Santa, just doing his part for Christmas. Who do you think got him started in the computer business in the first place by giving him his first electronics kit for Christmas?"
BC: "I guess that was you, Santa."
SC: "Bingo! The same with all the factory components. If it wasn't for my Elf Research and Development Division half of these new inventions wouldn't exist. These billionaire industrialists owe me big time and it's the least they can do to retool Santa's workshop every so often. Besides their help, I own a lot of patents for a lot of handy inventions. Ever hear of Velcro? That's my personal invention. It's made me a fortune."
BC: "You invented Velcro? For what?"
SC: "Yep. I needed a way to keep all the presents from falling off the sleigh without having to tie them down and waste time untying the knots at every stop. It works wonders."
BC: "I love velcro! What else did you invent?"
SC: "It's a long list, my friend. Let me put it this way, Edison and Bell were amateurs. by comparison. Everything I've invented has been an effort to streamline my operation, and as it turns out, a lot of these inventions have practical uses for home and industry. NASA used a bunch of them for their space program and Steve Jobs actually owes the success of the iMac to a couple of little doohickeys Santa invented. Apple computers have donated hundreds of computers to my operation, with all the bells and whistles. The royalties on the toothpaste tube alone have funded a generous benefits and retirement package for the Elves."
BC: "You invented that? But what good is the toothpaste tube to running a toy factory?"
SC: "That was strictly for Christmas Eve. The truth is I didn't invent it for toothpaste but for Preparation H. All that sleigh riding is murder on the old hemorrhoids and the tube was much handier than the jar."
BC: "Okay, so much for your inventions, Santa. tell me about Mrs. Claus."
SC: " Which one?"
BC: "Your wife, Mrs. Claus! The kindly looking little old lady with the white hair and the glasses we see in all the pictures..."
SC: "That would be Emma, God rest her soul, my first wife. She's like a company logo today, sort of a tribute to my first love. She died three hundred and fifty years ago and I've been married a dozen more times, had a few live-in girlfriends too. The current Mrs. Clause is Sandi, a real hottie, let me tell you..."
BC: "Santa, you mean Mrs. Clause is dead? How can that be?"
SC: "My wives are mortal, Bob. It's only me and the reindeer who are magic. It's a sad truth, but that's how it is. It's not all sugarplums and candy canes being Santa."
BC: "You buried a dozen wives? How sad..."
SC: "No, not all of them. Some of them divorced me."
BC: "They divorced Santa Clause?"
SC: "It's not easy living in the North Pole, Bob. Just me an around 500 alcoholic elves. If you're really not completely committed to Christmas, it's no life for a gorgeous babe."
BC: "Where do you meet these gorgeous babes, Santa?"
SC: "I must confess that a couple of them I found dancing on a pole in 'gentlemen's  clubs.' Others I met in various nightclubs around the world, art galleries or restaurants. I may be magic, but I have my desires too, you know. And I figure for all I give to mankind I'm entitled to a little good clean fun with pretty lady. Emma, the first Mrs. Clause was a serving wench in a wild pub in Bristol, England. She was a real firecracker, she was..."
BC: "Santa, you're blowing my mind. here!"
SC: "Whoa, don't be judging, pal. Don't forget that I know all about you, what's naughty and nice about your taste in women too! And we both know it leans more towards the naughty, if you know what I mean. Which isn't a bad thing, mind you. Why, me and the current Mrs. Clause often like to ..."
BC: "Easy, Santa, kids might be reading this."
SC: "My bad, Bob. But now that you've got me thinking about Sandi I can't wait to get back to the pole. The North Pole, that is."
BC: "Of course. So Santa, since you know all about me and have since I was a little kid, how'd I turn out?"
SC: "Quite frankly, Bob, I'm disappointed in you."
BC: "But Santa, I've been trying to do my best..."
SC: "Gotcha! Just messing with your head, Bob. You're fine. Now you can tell your buddies you were punk'd by Santa."
BC: "Gee, Santa, you're not anything like what I expected."
SC: "Just goes to show where you can stick most expectations, no?"
BC: "I guess so, Santa. Well, Merry Christmas and have a good trip on Christmas Eve."
SC: "And a Merry Christmas to you, Bob! Ho, Ho, Ho!"
And he was off in a flash. No, not on his sled with the eight tiny reindeer but in a cab to take him to the airport where his private jet would take him back to the North Pole to get ready for Christmas. A pretty nice guy, Santa, and more down to earth than you might expect. Quite earthy, actually. Well, good for him. Santa has done a lot of good for a lot of people over the years. If he wants to kick back in a gentlemen's club with a stiff whiskey and some gorgeous babes running their fingers through his beard after flying all over the world giving toys to children, well he's earned it. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 755

Whether it is fair or not, people tend to hold that stalking conviction against you for years and years after your release from prison.

RULES FOR GENTLEMEN

My cousin Joe got a good book for Christmas called "How To Be A Gentleman." It is a handy little tome we had a lot of fun with at our holiday gathering. It's an updated version that covers things like text-messaging while crossing busy streets and gym etiquette as far as not hogging the exercise machines or grunting excessively. The proper etiquette for handling annoying tele-marketers is discussed. There's even tips about how to be a gentleman while shopping. There's all sorts of useful tidbits of information to help modern man behave like a gentleman and thus contribute to a more considerate, responsible and kind world. There were, however, some surprises. For example:

A gentleman always takes the wet spot.

A gentleman is always circumspect when stalking, and carefully maintains the hundred-yard distance from the lady in question that is recommended in the restraining order.

In the event of his getting arrested, a gentleman doesn't waste his one phone call dialing a sex line.

When crossing the street to avoid a particularly annoying acquaintance, a gentleman does so with subtlety and grace.

When someone starts a war with you, a gentlemen never invades the wrong country in response. Instead, he attacks those who attack him, no matter how much oil other countries may have.

When playing cards, it is permissible for a gentleman to cheat only when the money at stake is substantial.

When employing the services of a prostitute, a gentleman never charges the bill to his company's expense account. He pays in cash from his own funds and tips generously.

When faced with the choice between an admission of guilt and evading responsibility for criminal conduct, a gentleman always lies with a straight face and a calm demeanor.

When escorting a lady out on the town a gentleman never frequents the same clubs and restaurants he patronizes with is wife.

While it is an accepted maxim of the true gentleman to never steal anything small, a gentleman never steals 50 billion dollars from those who trust him with their life savings and charity endowments.

When seeking a fresh boutonniere for one's tuxedo after business hours, one's neighbor's rose garden may provide a gentleman with a satisfactory alternative to the florist.

A southern gentleman never wears a white sheet after Labor Day.

When the subjects of religion and politics arise in social settings, a true gentleman limits his derogatory remarks to those not present.

A gentleman does not kiss and tell. Receiving oral sex, however, is a whole different story, and other gentleman may be regaled with such tales to one's social advantage, but only when no ladies are present.

A gentleman does not cut the line at an open bar, unless of course he perceives that the bourbon is running low. In that instance only is it permissible to exert one's gentlemanly prerogatives, perhaps with some deft footwork and a subtly placed left hook.

A gentleman never shoots his friends in the face with a shotgun, especially when a small-caliber pistol is handy. One shot to the knee will deliver the same message without the inconvenient blood spatter. Always exhibit consideration for those who launder your wardrobe.

When refusing to give up his subway seat to an elderly lady, a gentleman always affects a limp when he gets up to exit the train.

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 754

The most thankful one at the feast is generally the family dog.

A THANKSGIVING PRAYER

Well it's Thanksgiving again, the time to get together with our families and reflect on all our blessings. This is a uniquely American holiday, one shared by no other nation but Canada, who celebrates it on a different day. Leave it to Canada to to be almost exactly like the United States, but not quite. You could say Canada is just like the USA, but without all that distracting excitement and vitality.

Their talented people certainly recognize where the action isn't and come south to get famous. Canada, get a lifestyle! Sorry once again, Canadians, but if you really want to be something other than America Lite, do something different other than refusing to pronounce the word "about" properly. That's the lamest claim to national identity ever.

But I digress, and I am being unkind to our esteemed neighbor to the north, our plodding and stoic provider of cold fronts, maple syrup and toothless ice skaters, but I'm working on it. This is about giving thanks, not my human failings. Let us review the many things we have for which to be humbly grateful and join together in prayer of thanks to our Creator.

We'll start with the menu:

Oh Lord, we are your humble servants and thankful we only have to eateth this ponderous provender but once a year. If there is a drier, more tasteless bird in all Your vast Creation, oh Lord, we thank Thee for revealing it not to the Pilgrims. And Lord forgive us for stuffing this mound of meat with more meat, inventing sweet potato and marshmallow concoctions, mince pies and fruit cakes. We solemnly vow to consumeth these nominally edible dishes but once a year. Grant us the wisdom to remain faithful to these abstentions on all the days saveth Thanksgiving.

Now we thank the Lord for our precious family:

Let us prostrate ourselves before thee in humble thanks that Aunt Greta finally had that sizable goiter removed from her neck so there will be no squabbling over who must sit opposite her at the table and lose their appetite for Thy wondrous bounty. And we beseech thee, oh Lord, for all our sakes that Cousin Roger's latest stay at rehab takes, and he consumeth not half his weight in beer and tequila before collapsing into his plate of food.

And Lord, in your infinite wisdom, provide Grandpa with a decent battery for his hearing aid so that he belloweth not at his progeny. And we beseech thee oh Lord to allow Uncle Milton to recall a different topic of conversation than his many surgeries or failing bodily functions.

And Lord we beg thee not to let cousin Belinda stray too close to the kitchen lest the refrigerator magnets cling to her many facial piercings again, and allow little Billy to see the light when it comes to fiddling around with electric outlets and butter knives, thus sparing us another holiday visit from Thy blessed ambulance technicians. And may Mama and Papa call a truce to their decades-long feud over who else they should have married. At least for this one day, oh Lord, that our ears be spared this vitriol.

And we beg thee oh Lord to convince Aunt Lorraine that the days of mini skirts and exposed cleavage are long behind her and while you are at it, oh Mighty One, perhaps you could persuade Uncle Jack to lose the combover and ponytail, the skull and crossbones earring and the leather pants into which he fitteth not anymore, as thy generous bounty has increased his girth immeasurably over the years.

And since Thanksgiving is our own invention, it is only right and proper that we give thanks for our wonderful country:

And now Lord, we thank thee for this wonderful nation unto to which our ancestors arrived and wrested from the Godless savages who sustained us in our first vulnerable winters. We complement thee, oh Lord, for giving these Godless savages many gambling casinos as compensation for having given us their land, upon which they had not the wisdom to build a single strip mall or drive-through fast food emporium.

And let us thank thee for providing us our black brethren, who gave us their cheerful assistance in dominating this land with their free labor and servitude for 400 years. Let us pray for all our brethren whose skin is a slightly different shade than our own, that they do not wisheth to reside in our neighborhood.

Oh Lord we thank thee for our national institutions like Congress, the Supreme Court, Reality TV and the many fine Law and Order programs. We thank thee for our wise leaders and thank thee further for term limits. Lord, we pray that half as many of us vote in our next election than for an episode of American Idol.

And Lord, we beseech thee to open the eyes of the blind who worship not at the altar of Thee, the One True God, and alloweth us the serenity to smite them not unto dust.

And let none of us assail the caretakers with whom You, in your infinite wisdom, have entrusted almost all of our nation's bounty, thy worthy wealthy servants. Let not our hearts turn bitter when those servants giveth our jobs to nations that need them more than we do, drain our treasury and sendeth our children to wars for reasons we cannot hope to understand. Alloweth not the sheep to question the shepherds.

Maketh us not envious of the many fine homes owned by our shepherds while so many of our own brethren are losing their modest shelter to banks. Let us instead rejoice over being relieved of our heavy labors and our burdensome mortgages, and be thankful that our clothing is now sewn by industrious Chinese children and the cars that are now our homes are so sturdily assembled in Mexico.

Let us not wax melancholy that our dear nephew Ralph cannot find any gainful employment with his expensive college business degree save that of a busboy in one of the many fine corporate executive dining rooms, and allow us not to indulge in petty irony. Alloweth Ralph to accept his station in life. And Lord help sister Jane and her many unruly children hang on to their little house, lest they moveth in with us.

And one more thing, Oh Lord: Please make this year's football game an exciting one and not a lopsided stinker that's pretty much over at half time and alloweth Thy windy sports commentators much leeway to blather on and on about many strange and wondrous things having nothing to do with anything. We remain your humble and grateful servants. Amen.

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 753

Stamping out intolerance is sort of missing the point.

THE IMPERFECT THANKSGIVING

Sometimes things happen around the Holidays, odd things. Nothing to be done about it either. Can't fight City Hall or outrageous fate. You can tear out your hair over it, rend your garments, get busy with the wailing and gnashing of teeth routine, or you can roll with the punches. And when it's life that's doing the punching, there's no one to blame, no one to defend yourself against or from whom to seek retribution. It's just life, and that's the way it goes sometimes. Nothing personal, just your turn in the barrel. It's random. We might wail "Why me?" The answer might be; "Why not you?" Sometimes things just happen, things like this:
You have a Thanksgiving gathering in your home, first time you get to host the big event for the entire extended family. It seems your parents have gone on a second honeymoon this year, and the honors are yours. The pressure is enormous, the comparisons to other family members' memorable feasts are many. You prepare for weeks, you and the lovely wife, polishing every stick of furniture, even painting the place like you've been meaning to do for the past decade.
Then you shop for enough food to feed a regiment. You don't want to get too creative and mess with the traditional Thanksgiving menu, so you go the turkey, yams and cranberry sauce route, plus about a dozen other things in huge amounts, more than everyone you've ever met could eat in one day.
And you pull it off somehow, first time out of the gate! The house looks great, the food is perfect and when the table is set it looks like that Norman Rockwell painting. Only trouble is, that it's not the Norman Rockwell family sitting down to the feast, it's your family. By the time you serve dinner, Uncle Charlie is roaring drunk and telling dirty jokes, Aunt Rose is kicking him under the table and your 22 year-old nephew Joey, your big brother's kid with the dozens of face piercings and death-motif tattoos announces he's a strict carnivore and will eat only meat, preferably raw beef.
His teenage brothers and sisters, two sets of boy-girl twins, have been smoking pot in your garage and can't stop giggling. Your 92 year-old grandfather decides to lead the family in saying grace and forgets the words halfway through. Four times. Granny, who's nearly deaf, shouts to all that she hopes Gramps doesn't soil himself like he did at the 4th of July barbecue.
The meal finally starts and your 5 foot, 2-inch tall, 300-pound Aunt Millie starts critiquing each dish, usually in a negative way, and just to be absolutely certain she doesn't like anything you cooked, fills her plate several times. Uncle Charlie slips your 9 year-old kid a 5 spot to keep the ice cubes and bourbon coming, and teaches him what the words "douche bag" mean.
Your thirty-something, thrice-divorced sister-in-law Mildred who gets very tense around the holidays has solved that little problem by taking a handful of tranquilizers and is now hanging all over Cousin Joey as he chews on a raw steak he thawed out in the microwave, telling him she doesn't care one bit if everybody thinks he's a maladjusted little shit, she thinks he's one sexy freak show of a man. Joey grunts between bloody mouthfuls and slips a hand up her dress.
Your 15 year-old daughter is sitting next to them, rolling her eyes and texting a blow-by-blow account of the dinner to her friends. Your brother Rick, the know-it-all blowhard who married a woman who's father created a lucrative do-nothing job for him at his import-export business, is drinking egg nog and brandy concoctions and repeating the political theories of Rush Limbaugh louder and louder as if he made them up himself until his wife tells him to shut the hell up a dozen or more times.
Your 5 year-old son announces that Uncle Ricky is douche bag and Uncle Charlie tells another dirty joke while Cousin Joey and Mildred disappear into your son's bedroom. Your daughter abruptly announces that she hates you all and wishes she were dead and disappears into her own room in a huff while Joey's siblings go back to the garage to smoke more pot.
Your son calls his pothead cousins a bunch of douche bags too while he fetches more ice cubes and bourbon for Uncle Charlie while you and the lovely wife clean up dinner and prepare for dessert. It turns out that the pot smoking teens have already devoured the lemon meringue and coconut custard pies with their bare hands and are wiping their hands on the curtains. Luckily you have about six other things for dessert.
Your wife is crying silently as you shoo the teenagers back to the garage and put on the coffee. Your daughter emerges from her room and drags your son into the kitchen to help, then starts hugging your wife and crying along with her in the kitchen, telling her that Joey and Mildred are making a racket in your son's room, at which point the kid makes a beeline to his bedroom and flings the door wide open and snaps on the light before you can catch up to him, with everyone from the dining room table right behind him.
You hear your son yell; "Whoa, cooool!" while your Uncle Charlie tells Joey to give her a good one for him, Aunt Rose kicks him in the shins again, RIck tells no one in particular that this is President Obama's fault for tearing society apart and Gramps starts singing the national anthem when he hears the word "President." You shut the light and the door and herd everyone back to the table for dessert. Now Grandma's in the kitchen with your wife and daughter crying with them and you drag them to the table too. It's time for coffee and dessert, and there's still pies, some peach cobbler, candies and brownies.
The marijuana crew load their plates with sweets, as does Aunt Millie, while  Gramps falls asleep in his plate of pumpkin pie. Joey and Mildred emerge from your son's room, grab their coats and announce they are off to Vegas to elope while your son screams at them that they made his bed all gooey and they're a couple of douche bags. Uncle Charlie drinks a toast to the young lovers and gets yet another kick in the shins from Aunt Rose.
Your wife and daughter are silently weeping into their coffee and dessert and the stoners are sucking the laughing gas from the whipped cream canisters, and then they go to your computer, change all your settings and download a bunch of creepy video games. Your brother Rick's wife is telling him to shut the hell up and go watch some football or something and all of a sudden Gramps wakes up and makes a dash for the bathroom, not quite making it in time, earning a "stinky old douche bag" from your son. Your parents' sudden decision to go on a second honeymoon on Thanksgiving weekend doesn't seem so surprising anymore.
The double sets of stoned twins raid the fridge for leftovers while Uncle Charlie and Aunt Rose argue over the car keys. Aunt Millie packs a giant doggy bag as Rick and his wife collect their teenagers and say goodnight. Grandma announces loud enough to be heard in the next state that this was the best Thanksgiving ever, and that you should be the permanent family host for Thanksgiving every year from now on. You reach for Uncle Charlie's bourbon and wonder just how hard it is to fake your own death. Happy Thanksgiving!

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 752

The bigger they are, the harder they are on the furniture.

INTERVIEW WITH ELMER FUDD

An early interview in the history of bobcrespo.com:

Looks like I've found my niche in this blog business, folks. Interviews! It's real hard to find new stuff to say every day so I figured I'd try my hand at interviewing, you know, let somebody else do all the work, just ask them some questions and sit back and let their words fill up the old blank pages for a change. My first one, with Mick Jagger of all people, didn't exactly go off without a hitch but I've learned from my mistakes. Turns out you've got do some actual work to prepare for these things, somewhat of a disappointment but I guess there's no free lunch in this business, unlike my other trade which is catering where there's more free food than you can possibly eat, but that's another story

Today's interview is with a bona fide American icon, a star of screens large and small and one of the most recognizable names in show business. Don't ask me how I landed this extraordinary coup, just let me say that at the end of a lot of very delicate negotiations with his representatives I am privileged to give my readers a real treat, an interview with the great Elmer Fudd himself! You all know Mr. Fudd as the star of countless cartoons as the comic foil for Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Tweety Bird and too many other mega-stars of cartoonery to count. His portrayal of "The Intwepid Hunter" is a classic of Bunyanesque proportions, rivaled only by Chaplin's loveable Everyman "The Tramp" in motion picture annals. Elmer Fudd could do it all, comedy-wise. He could be as good a straight man as Bud Abbot when playing off Bugs Bunny or as zany as Jerry Lewis if the situation required zaniness. He also was a deft hand at pathos, able to produce the tears at the dwop of a hat.

Now retired from performing, Elmer Fudd has moved behind the camera to the director's chair, helming such latter-day classics as "Saving Pwivate Wyan," "Piwates of The Cawibbean" and "When Hawwy Met Sawwy." Not limiting himself to directing, Mr. Fudd has also been busy writing squwipts, I means scripts for top television shows like "Waw and Owder", "Thirty Wock" and "Without A Twace," and also directing many episodes of "Ugwy Betty."

Mr. Fudd arived at the offices of bobcrespo.com alone, with no entourage or limousine, explaining that he "Wuv's to supwise peopew by woawing up my Hawwey Davidson." Indeed it was a shock to see him pulling up to bobcrespo.com on his bike, and more surprising still to see he has grown a beard and let his hair grow in, wearing it long like a true biker. Elmer also sports many tattoos, not surprisingly likenesses of many of his former costars, most prominently a large Tweety Bird with Sylvester the Cat on one forearm and Bugs Bunny munching a carrot on the other. He's also in surprisingly good shape, exhibiting none of the round tubbiness you associated with his film roles. "I'm a widdiw bit of a gym wat," he explained. Indeed, his firm handshake is a dead giveaway that he's been pumping a lot of iron.

Mr. Fudd made himself right at home in my office, accepting a glass of iced tea and lighting up a cigar, which I half expected to explode in his face. A relaxed man at home in his own skin, he was the one who broke the ice:

EF: "Nice pwace you've got here."

BC: "Thank you Mr. Fudd. Welcome to bobcrespo.com.

EF: "My pweasure. And cawl me Ewma"

BC: "So, Ewma, let's get right into to it. I suppose your classic line from that Bugs Bunny cartoon 'My name is Ewma Fudd. I am a miwwionaire, I own a mansion and a yacht' has more than come true for these days."

EF: "You can say that again, my fwend! See, Bugs and I got together years ago and bought all the wights fwum Wawner Bwothers to ouw cawtoons and now we're wowwing in dough as they say."

BC: "Smart business move, sir. Very forward thinking."

EF: "Weww, the studio boys figuwed cawtoons wewe onwy siwwy stuff, not weawy cwassic archive matewial wike other movies, but me and Bugs knew better and we made them an offer and they gwabbed it. Now what they got is dated bwack and white mewodwamas whiwe me and Bugs got timewess cwassics that never get old. There's always a new cwop of kids who wuv our work."

BC: "It sounds like you and Bugs are great friends. Watching your cartoons you'd think you two would always be mortal enemies."

EF: "Sounds like somebody took the cawtoons a widdew too sewiouswy, Bob. We wewe acting! I guess we were pwetty good at it, huh?"

BC: "Had me fooled."

EF: "Oh-kaaay... Anyway, me and Bugs are gweat buddies. We go golfing, work on squwipts together, devewop new shows, do a wot of pwoduction. One of our gweatest cowabowations was "Evwybody Wuv's Waymond."

BC: "That was you guys?"

EF: "Wike I said, me and Bugs. 'Wiww and Gwace' was ours too, both in syndication now, money in the bank for our gwandkids."

BC: "You have a big family?

EF: "Me, I have a weguwar sized famiwy, I guess. Two kids with my first wife and thwee gwandkids and coupew of wittew ones now with my second wife, too young to be mawwied yet."

BC: "Your second wife or your kids? Just kidding. And what about Bugs Bunny?

EF: "Him? I've wost twack by now. He is a wabbit, you know. Must have a couple of hundred gwandkids by now, especiawwy if his kids took after him, if you know what I mean."

BC: "A real ladies man, eh?

EF: "No. Wike I said, he's a wabbit. Wabbits repwoduce a wot, you know."

BC: "A kwazy wabbit?"

EF: "Didn't I just teww you he's a good fwiend and my copwoducer? Nothing Kwazy about him. Shwewd as they come."

BC: "But in your cartoons..."

EF: "There weawy is something wong with you, isn't there? "

BC: Well, to tell you the truth I'm a little disappointed that you're such a ...how can say this... a regular guy."

EF: "When you meet Wobert DeNiwo, would you expect him to be some inarticulate thug with a gun in his pocket?

BC: "Of course..."

EF: "What don't you get about show business, Bob, the show or the business? It's all make-beweave! Can't you sepawate Ewmer Fudd, the actor and cartoon chawactew fwom Ewmer Fudd the man?"

BC: "I never realized there'd be a difference."

EF: "I think this is a kwy for hewp on your part, Bob."

BC: "But you're Elmer friggin' Fudd, dammit! I should be able to hit you on the head with a hammer and make a bunch of little bumps on your head, blow off a shotgun in your face and get it all black, stuff you into a mailbox and all that stuff...."

EF: "I'm getting vewy uncomfortable here, Bob. I think I'll be on my way...."

BC: Can't I just fling you out the door with a giant sling shot? I thought we'd get to have some madcap, zany action here today..."

EF: "This is not a Woad Wunner episode, Bob, this is weaw wife. Didn't you ever hear of speciaw effects?"

BC: "Real life? You're Elmer Fudd, you can fall off the roof onto your head if you wanted to! Get hit a bunch of times with a giant mallet and shake it off! C'mon, Elmer, I've got a bunch of stuff prepared. Check out this stick of TNT!"

EF: "Bob, wet me warn you, I'm a bwack bewt in Kawate! Don't come any cwoser!"

BC: "Now you're talking, Fudd, let's do some cartoon stuff!."

EF: "Don't say I didn't wawn you!" (END OF INTERVIEW.)

Boy, that Elmer Fudd sure packs a mean karate chop for a cartoon character. He flipped me like a burger and stormed out my house, or rather, my office, hopped on his Harley and roared away, saying some very un-Elmer Fuddian things to me as he left. Looks like I'll have to tweak my interview techniques a bit more. You know you're an amateur when you alienate a retired cartoon character. Now what am I going to do with that giant mallet, the shotgun, the bear trap and that stick of dynamite, to say nothing of that giant sling shot I built with pieces of the china closet and our drapes?

The lovely wife insists I get rid of them and replace the drapes before I write another blog. She never did appreciate cartoons all that much and now she's questioning how I run my interview business! She doesn't seem to understand learning curves either, I suppose. Oh well, as they say in cartoons, back to the drawing board! Next time I'll nail it. Maybe O.J. Simpson's got some spare time on his hands. Should I take a stab at it? Let me just whip out my celebrity phone book here... okay, under S, let's see... Simon- Carly, Simon- Neil, Simon- Paul, Simon-Simple, hmmm, no shortage of famous Simons... Bingo there it is! Simpson, O.J., football Hall of Famer, B-actor and acquitted killer, let me just dial him up...

BC: "Hello? Mr. Simpson? Bob Crespo here, of bobcrespo.com. It's a website, sir. I was wondering if you would grant me an interview.... How much? Cash only, you say?... Or Krugerrands? Gee, that's an awful lot of gold, sir... No, I'm not making fun of you.. What? ... No, I don't think I'd like you to come over here and do that at all... Oh, you do know where I live?... O.J., I don't think that's necessary at all... all I wanted was... I mean... what do you mean or else?... couldn't we just forget all ab... What?... Mr. Simpson, you're blowing this all out of proportion... No, sir, I'm not calling you a liar, no need to do that..."

Like I said, this interview business isn't as easy as I thought. Now I have to move. I have a sinking feeling the lovely wife isn't going to understand that one one at all.

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 751

When asked to be specific, be specific. If you cannot, don't make things worse by lying, just shut the hell up. Either you know what you're talking about or you don't.

MY INTERVIEW WITH MICK JAGGER

Editor's note: In honor of Keith Richards' new autobiography, this is a reprint of an interview with Keith's musical partner in the Rolling Stones, MIck Jagger:

That living legend, Mick jagger, lead singer of The Rolling Stones and one half of the legendary song writing team Jagger/Richards has agreed to sit down with bobcrespo.com for an interview. Mick has taken time out of his busy touring and recording schedule to grant this interview and for that I'm grateful. Along with his band mates Keith Richards, Charlie Watts and Ron Wood, Mick and the Stones have recently set a world record for the highest grossing tour by a rock and roll band ever. This an an amazing feat considering that The Rolling Stones have been on the scene since the early 1960's, somehow managing to do what no other band has done before; stay relevant and popular and continue to fill arenas all over the world for over forty years.

These guys have been around so long that their bass player Bill Wyman actually retired a few years ago, cashing in on the generous severance package provided by the most successful Rock & Roll band ever. Mr. Wyman, being several years older than the other band members, opted to take the pension and enjoy life, figuring he's pushing 70 and if something's going to kill him he'd rather it be trying to keep up with his teenaged wife than the rigors of touring. He'd already witnessed one of their original members Brian Jones die a young death and his replacement, guitarist Mick Taylor, leaving the band for fear of sharing Mr. Jones' fate. Having beaten the long odds, Wyman cashed in rather than crapping out.

Still the Stones soldier on, making great music and defying the odds by not only staying alive but getting better and better as a live act. Keith Richards is a marvel of good genetics and astounding luck, the only possible explanations for his continued survival after a lifetime of hard, wild living. He even survived falling out of a palm tree onto his head recently and rejoined the tour to play some of his most electrifying shows in a decade. Bill Watts, perhaps one of the two or three greatest Rock & Roll drummers ever, is starting to resemble somebody's Granny but he's still out there laying down the muscular beat that has always driven Rolling Stones songs. Ron Wood, their other guitarist who has been with them for more than twenty years now seems to be in a constant duel onstage with Keith Richards, not only with their guitars but with which of them is the uglier man. This fan calls that one a toss-up.

Mick Jagger keeps himself in great shape and is a still the epitome of a Rock & Roll lead singer, a dancing, whirling dervish and a consummate entertainer. He's all over the stage, dancing and interacting with the band and the audience and is still in fine voice. He arrived by limo at the offices of bobcrespo.com looking every inch the rock star, fit and tanned and dressed in a fire-engine red blazer, dungarees, sandals and a black t-shirt. He had a small entourage, a personal assistant who is the most beautiful woman I've ever met, and also a hairdresser and a make-up artist for the photographs they figured I'd be shooting, the second and third most beautiful women I've ever met. Damn! I knew I forgot something besides the refreshments. The batteries in my wife's digital camera are dead and I forgot to recharge them. The beautiful assistants seemed awfully disappointed. Well, nothing to be done about that now, so I'll just plow ahead with the interview.

BC: "Mr. Jagger, thank you for giving bobcrespo.com this interview. This should really put me on the map, er, I mean it's an honor and a pleasure, sir."

MJ: "Call me Mick, mate."

BC: "Thanks, Mick, you can call me Mr. Crespo. I've been a fan of yours since your first records and TV appearances in the early 60's..."

MJ: "Showing your age, Mr. Crespo."

BC: "Can I finish my intro here, pal? This is my first interview and I'm a little nervous..."

MJ: "You're first interview?"

BCDC: "Yep, now can you do me a huge and keep your trap shut? I have this whole big intro written out."

MJ: "Well, excyooose me!"

BC: "No problem, Mick. Well, here goes: In his first ever interview with a major website, Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones has come to the offices of bobcrespo.com for an exclusive one-on-one with Bob Crespo. Mick and the Stones have just completed a record-breaking world tour and are currently reviewing tapes of their shows for a possible live album to be released in time for Christmas. Word has it that the Stones are so musically rejuvenated from their tour that Mick and Keith are collaborating on a new batch of songs that could land them in the studio for another album of originals in the very near future...."

MJ: "Who told you that rot? We're bloody exhausted after that tour. I've been lying around the Caribbean not doing much of any..."

BC: "Whoa, caviar-breath! I thought I asked you not to interrupt!

MJ: "But that's all nonsense, mate. You're making all this up!"

BC: "Hey, Mick, I've gotta tell my viewers something! It's not like your big shot Rolling Stones Incorporated Office provided me with a fact sheet or anything..."

MJ: "What viewers? I thought this a web site and you write a blog?

BC: "Well, I'm taping this for a possible pod-cast. It's not everyday that a Mick Jagger sits down and..."

MJ: "But there's no camera here!"

BC: "Guess again, pal. See this computer? It's an I-Mac and it has a video camera built right in. That's why you're sitting in that chair. Check it out!"

MJ: "But that mostly shows you!"

BC: "What, you haven't had enough publicity on your lifetime Mister Look-at-me-look-at-me-I'm-a-rock-star? Can't a guy get a break here?"

MJ: "This wasn't part of the deal, Bob! No broadcasts, or pod-casts or whatever it is that dinky James Bond spy camera does! You arranged for an interview and that's all! No one prepared me for a telly broadcast! Now get on with your questions, will you, and forget your barmy introduction or I walk out right now!"

BC: Okay, okay, no need to get so testy over here, Senor Sensitive. Alright then, here's my question: Mick Jagger, let me get this straight, you say it's only Rock & Roll but you like it?"

MJ: "What? That's it? That's your question?"

BC: "Should I repeat the question?"

MJ: "The answer's yes, you bloody idiot, it's only Rock & Roll but I like it! Next."

BC: "Next what?"

MJ: "Next question, of course."

BC: "But I don't have any."

MJ: "But that first one wasn't even a proper question!"

BC: "Too personal?"

MJ: "You mean to tell me you don't have any other questions you'd like to ask me? Nothing?

BC: "Well, Mick, now that you mention it I probably should have prepared a few more. I figured you're this big shot rock star with the exciting life and you'll just pull out some fascinating anecdotes and stuff...."

MJ: "That's not how interviews work, you bloody wanker! You ask me questions and I answer them. Got it?"

BC: "Hmmmm... Okay, here's a good one: Mick Jagger, did you ever manage to get any Satisfaction?"

MJ: "Okay that does, it, I'm out of here! Come on, people, this was one royal waste of an afternoon."

BC: "Hey, it's my first interview, give me a break here..."

MJ: "Take your dot com and stick it, you jackass!"

BC: "This is Bob Crespo, live at bobcrespo.com, thanking Mick Jagger for visiting our offices for his first ever internet interview, an exclusive for bob crespo dot co......"

"MJ: "This will not be broadcast or you'll be hearing from my attorneys, and shut that stupid thing off! And what bloody offices are you talking about? This is your bloody living room! Who arranged this interview? Whoever it is is fired! Out on their arse! Out, you hear me..."

That went well. I suppose Mick is right in suggesting that I need to tighten up my interviewing techniques a drop, maybe even do a little preparation next time. Well, live and learn, eh? But not bad for my first interview ever. It's not every day one gets visited by a superstar and his three beautiful assistants. I even have a photo of Mick and myself together that I managed to snap with the i-photo feature in the computer. Maybe I can do a little photo-shop retouching so he doesn't look so pissed off at me, maybe make that fist he's shaking at me look like a high-five. If not, no biggie. I still have many special memories to cherish for my whole life of the time I interviewed Mick Jagger of The Rolling Stones in my very own home, I mean rather, that is... the offices of bobcrespo.com.

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 750

Whether or not a dream ever comes true is beside the point, isn't it? It is, after all, a dream.

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 749

Ideologues hate people who think for themselves.

GUEST COMMENTARY BY THE GREAT SUGAR BLUE: NOW YOU GET MAD?

Editor's Note: Sugar Blue, born James Whiting and a son of Harlem, NYC, is an accomplished harmonica player, singer and songwriter. Most people are familiar with his unforgettable harmonica work on the Rolling Stones' song "Miss You," with his melodic and passionate harp work propelling and defining that classic song. A favorite of music critics and blues afficionados, Sugar's music can be heard and purchased at sugar-blue.com. These insightful observations on the Tea Party movement and the conservative cry to "take back America" are taken intact from his Facebook Page.

You didn't get mad when the Supreme Court stopped a legal recount and appointed a President.
You didn't get mad when Cheney allowed Energy company officials to dictate Energy policy and push us to invade Iraq.
You didn't get mad when a covert CIA operative got outed. You didn't get mad when the Patriot Act got passed.
You didn't get mad when we illegally invaded a country that posed no threat to us.
You didn't get mad when we spent over 800 billion (and counting) on said illegal war.
You didn't get mad when Bush borrowed more money from foreign sources than the previous 42 Presidents combined.
You didn't get mad when over 10 billion dollars in cash just disappeared in Iraq.
You didn't get mad when you found out we were torturing people.
You didn't get mad when Bush embraced trade and outsourcing policies that shipped 6 million American jobs out of the country.
You didn't get mad when the government was illegally wiretapping Americans.
You didn't get mad when we didn't catch Bin Laden.
You didn't get mad when Bush rang up 10 trillion dollars in combined budget and current account deficits.
You didn't get mad when you saw the horrible conditions at Walter Reed. You didn't get mad when we let a major US city, New Orleans, drown.
You didn't get mad when we gave people who had more money than they could spend, the filthy rich, over a trillion dollars in tax breaks.
You didn't get mad with the worst 8 years of job creations in several decades.
You didn't get mad when over 200,000 US Citizens lost their lives because they had no health insurance.
You didn't get mad when lack of oversight and regulations from the Bush Administration caused US Citizens to lose 12 trillion dollars in investments, retirement, and home values.
You finally got mad when a black man was elected President and decided that people in America deserved the right to see a doctor if they are sick.

Yes, illegal wars, lies, corruption, torture, job losses by the millions, stealing your tax dollars to make the rich richer, and the worst economic disaster since 1929 are all okay with you, but helping fellow Americans who are sick...Oh, No Way!!!!

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 748

Religion is a lame reason to hate anybody, especially when there are so very many good and juicy reasons to hate someone's friggin' guts.

IT'S CLEAR: AMERICA NEEDS BOB CRESPO IN 2012 FOR VICE PRESIDENT!

The polls are looking grim for the Democrats this election. What many thought was a ridiculous notion just might come to pass this Tuesday; that the Republicans will gain a majority in the House of Representatives, only 2 years removed from their 8 year-long attempted homicide of America as we knew it.

The Young Turks in the Republican Party, not happy with how friggin' nuts and incompetent the Republicans were under Papa Doc Cheney, have gone Rove and Company one better with a bizarre combination of extreme religion, corporate partnership and good old fashioned McCarthyism.

Crazier political wannabes never foamed at the mouth. These people are running the stupidest counter culture since the hippies back in the 60's, who at last had the excuse that they were stoned. These Tea Party people are just dumb, scary stupid.

And yet, a lot of people are still so pissed off at the damage the Republicans did to this country that they're taking it out on Obama, who's 22 months in office has mostly been spent trying to plug the thousand leaks that the Cheney Administration left in the ship of state.

As little sense as it makes to vote for the party that created this mess, it just might happen. The new Republicorp Party and their wholly-owned subsidiary, the Tea Party, Inc., have once again proved P.T. Barnum's genius by persuading millions of people to cast votes guaranteed to directly damage their own lives.

Like rubes at the County Fair buying Dr. Feelgood's Magic Elixir, they are enchanted by the outrageous claims of carnival barkers and hand over their hard-earned for a bottle of absurd dreams. Only too late do they realize they've been screwed yet again.

Thanks to these Young Turks, fear, illusion, slander and lies are gaining the edge over sanity in American politics, and the only public figure to try and stem the insanity is a comedian! Apparently a lot people think it's okay that so many supremely ridiculous people will now have jobs in The United States Congress, people even more ridiculous than some of the wackos already in Congress.

What can President Obama do to recoup these losses in 2012 and hang onto the presidency? Simple, dump Joe Biden and hire me as Vice President! Biden's part of the problem, not the solution! The solution? Simple: Bob Crespo For Vice President in 2012!

Nobody wants some earnest old windbag as Vice President, a guy who has a whole bunch of "ideas "and "policies" of his own! That's the friggin' president's job, the guy the people actually voted for!

I have no such baggage and could guarantee President Obama that I won't put in my 2¢ worth at any cabinet meetings. Hell, I won't even show up to the damned things, they're for people who actually run the government, not Vice Presidents.

I suffer no illusions that I can do a better job than the president, and won't have one bit of advice to offer except to just do your very best. And you can bet your ass that I won't take over the country either, like that douchebag Cheney did.

As for the VP job itself, well, what's not to love? I'll have a large staff of assistants and eager young interns to help me do jack shit, a bunch of cool bodyguards with blacks sunglasses, a mansion with a pool, my own damned jumbo jet to go anywhere I feel like, and a huge expense account. The salary is pretty sweet too, 227 grand, a lot of dough for very little effort, and a major boost in my lifestyle.

I'll even have a "Chief of Staff," some guy who actually knows what's going on but isn't quite smart enough to work for the president. Fine by me, I'll keep him busy writing reports that no one will read while I keep my staff in tip-top shape at the Vice Presidential pool. I'll be on call 24/7.

When I'm not entertaining some minor foreign bigshot unworthy of the presidential ear, I'll be flying to the the Riviera or Rio de Janeiro on "fact-finding" missions. In other words, I'll stay out of the way and let the professionals earn their keep.

In my Vice Presidential capacity as President Pro Tem of the Senate, the only time I'll show up there will be to cast a tie-breaking vote in favor of my boss. When questioned on the president's policies, I'll answer "What he said." Unlike most vice presidents, I won't say and do stupid things that embarrass the boss.

No president needs another headache making excuses for his jackass vice president. Hiring me for the job ensures the nation more of the president's time devoted to his job and not to spin control to explain away the blatherings of some loose-lipped political hack.

On the campaign trail, I'll go wherever he asks, and say whatever he tells me to say. I look good in a suit, speak the English language fluently, get along well with almost everybody, and that's about all you want in a vice president

I'm also not afraid to do the dirty work when the job calls for it. For example, I can use the traditional cluelessness of American vice-presidents to the boss' political advantage if he likes, like bringing up rumors about the opposition leaders, wondering out loud about their loyalty to America, illegal campaign contributions, or alleged episodes of bestiality and cross dressing.

Nothing that can be nailed down, of course, just good old fashioned smear politics, guilt by suggestion, tearing a page out of Rove's Swift Boat handbook. While that's below a president, Vice President Bob Crespo would be glad to stoop to conquer.

My eye will remain firmly on the prize: 4 years getting paid for living in a mansion with a pool and a bunch of secretaries and a jet and the best tables at every restaurant on earth and very little to do.

I swear to uphold the finest traditions of the Vice Presidency and be a man you will not remember and who's political accomplishments escape you. Like the great, anonymous mediocrities that have come before me into this (hardly) august office, I will simply be there, and that's about it. America needs a traditional Vice President, not another distraction.

Bob Crespo For Vice President in 2012: Dare not to do!

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 747

You've been preparing your whole life for this moment. Do your best.

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 746

Dreamers do what realists know is impossible.

LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 745

Of the many notable events of the 20th century, by far the coolest was landing a man on the moon. Nothing else even comes close.

THE JACK DANIELS FACTORY: FROM THE TALES OF THE TASH BROTHERS BAND, TRUE AND OTHERWISE (THIS ONE'S THE GOD'S HONEST!)

Editors note: Today's entry is a (mostly) true short story with no plot, not much character development, no moral and not much point at all other than describing a fun few days in Tennessee with a good friend:

Bobby Dee's big sister Sue (the late, great Susan D'Alessandro) tells him she's got to use up a bunch of bonus air miles before they expire but she can't possibly fly all over the place at the moment so she tells him " Here, go somewhere. Take Crespo."

So that was that and we were off to Nashville. Not because we're musicians and songwriters, which we are, but because we had a friend who lived there, a guy named Trey who was our drinking buddy in Captain Walter's in Sheepshead Bay for a few years.

Coast Guard guy, stationed on a cool patrol boat with gigantic engines and machine guns on it in Roxbury, just over the Gil Hodges Bridge in Rockaway. Mid 80s maybe. Who remembers dates? It was a long time ago anyway, pre-internet and cell phone times.

Captain Walter's was headquarters in those days for me and Bobby and Tony Burdo, the 3 ring leaders of The Tash Brothers Band, a fine saloon on Emmons Avenue. Trey and a few of his Coast Guard buddies were regulars, mostly Southern boys and pretty good people, lots of fun.

He had been discharged and back home in Tennessee for 5 years or so, married with a kid and working a salesman job, so it would be a good reunion.

Trey had a nice little house with a stream in the backyard, a pretty little wife and a cute 3 year old boy named Crosby Alonzo James IV, which is how I found out that Trey's name was Crosby Alonzo James III. Trey had always been plenty good enough for me.

His kid liked the two Brooklyn guys named Bob visiting, and settled things by calling us Crespo and Bobby Dee, like most other people did. Beautiful child, reminded me of my own two guys before they morphed into teenaged pains in the ass.

His wife was a sweet young girl of maybe 22, old fashioned, very mannerly and a bit of a holy roller. She called Trey Daddy, and he called her Mama. She treated her guests like princes, mentioned Jesus a lot, and promised to remember us in her bedside prayers.

A lovely, gentle and genuine soul, not an ounce of mean in her. This was a new kind of person to me and Bobby. Our world was different.

We had planned to stay with them for a day or two and then get a hotel in town where we could raise proper hell, but they wouldn't hear of it and insisted we spend the whole 5 days with them. We couldn't say no to Little Mama, as we called her.

They were only 20 minutes from downtown Nashville and on the weekend we took the kid, they called him Skip, to an amusement park called Dolly Parton Land, which was loaded with great music shows and huge fiberglass sculptures of Dolly's ample breasts as well as the regular rides and whatnot. We all had a blast, especially little Skip.

Then there was Nashville at night, highly recommended. Went to a lot of great clubs, saw some awesome musicians, and there seemed to be a virtuoso player doing his thing on every street corner: guitars, fiddles, mandolins, banjos, both solo and in every imaginable combination. Wicked, wicked players.

Great town. Our only disappointment was that both The Ryman Auditorium, which houses The Grand Ole Oprey, and Conway Twitty City were temporarily closed for renovations. I had never heard of Conway Twitty City before we drove by it and to this day wonder what the hell it was all about.

Then Bobby had the brainstorm to go to the Jack Daniels Distillery in Lynchburg, Tennessee. In those days Jack Daniels was our favorite beverage. The Tash Brothers were all skilled and enthusiastic drinkers. Not that this is a wonderful virtue, mind you, but that's how things stood then.

Bobby says we're in Tennessee and who knows when we'll be here again so let's go to the source, or words to that effect. Bobby Dee, who at this point in his life, somewhere in our early 30s, had never held a steady job, was a master at finding interesting stuff to do in the daytime back in New York.

His partner in idleness was Tony, while I worked a day job, so I usually didn't do those things like visiting the Jack Daniels Factory. But I figured I'm on vacation in Tennessee, what the hell, and off we went on a scenic two hour drive to the tiny hamlet of Lynchburg, Tennessee, population around 2,000, give or take.

And quite the tour it was, from the barrel yard where they charred the oak whiskey barrels by burning only selected hickory inside them to the huge stainless steel vats of ice cold rotting corn mash that seared your nostrils with a sugary ammonia sting to the machines that applied labels and swept the bottles up and down and around corners on tracks until they arrived at the whiskey spigots, where they were filled in an eyeblink, then wrapped by robot arms a dozen at a time in open-topped black and white cardboard boxes.

The open boxes then rolled down to a platform where the only hands-on work on the whole assembly line was done by a platoon of hairnetted, white-clad ladies with incredibly limber fingers who screwed the caps on each bottle by hand in no time at all. Odd. From there the boxes roll into a machine which wraps the caps with tax stamps and seals the cases and the hour-long tour is over.

Pretty impressive, you're thinking, now to taste the product itself! So the tour guide ushers you into the reception room where you are offered complimentary drinks, all you could consume in the 15 allotted minutes. Hot damn, you're thinking, glad I'm not driving! I still had the taste in my mouth from sniffing the giant vat and looked forward to putting myself outside of a decent amount of smooth Tennessee sipping whiskey.

Only thing is, the drink they offer in unlimited quantities is lemonade. Lynchburg, Tennessee, it seems, is a dry town in a dry county. Small wonder only 2,000 people live there. No alcoholic beverages may be sold or served within county limits, so we settled for buying some Jack Daniels caps and T-shirts for our fellow corn whisky enthusiasts (drunks) back home.

There wasn't anything for me to buy for my kids there, so we chugged a lemonade apiece (not bad) and ambled out. We found out later that it was general knowledge that Jack Daniels was manufactured in a dry county and served only lemonade, but that bit of trivia never reached me or Bobby Dee until presented with the harsh reality, and it would be a lie to say this wasn't a sizable let down.

So, the three of us, (Little Mama didn't want to visit a place that made whiskey, something she never touched herself but didn't mind if the menfolk did in due moderation) Trey, Bobby and I got in the car and headed home, figuring we'd take some back roads, see what this part of the world looked like.

And sweet it was, a beautiful slice of America. We didn't get far before we crossed the Moore County Line, and there we encountered a whole bunch of scenic wonders of the American South; roadhouses, every one of them doing a brisk trade in whiskey with disappointed visitors to the Jack Daniels Factory. These friendly outposts line every road leading out of Lynchburg, Tennessee.

This was apparently the unofficial (and best) part of the Jack Daniels tour and we had quite an enjoyable afternoon. I dig the hell out of ladies with a Southern drawl and they get a kick out of our Brooklyn accents, so a fine time was had by all in some joint with a funny name I can't recall, only that it had a killer juke box and was filled with a lot of friendly souls.

Trey figured we didn't want to meet any Tennessee State Troopers under adverse circumstances and get a poor impression of southern hospitality on our last day in Tennessee, so he insisted we eat something and swallow lots of coffee before heading out. Sound advice.

Southern cooking is fabulous and the funny-named joint with the great music was no exception so we didn't mind at all, sharing a table with some interesting people from Georgia and eating barbecue, biscuits smothered in honey, grits and po'boys, which I thought were a New Orleans thing but are a Southern thing.

Whatever, the food down south rocks and we made a long, lazy feast of it. Little Mama wasn't so happy that we rolled home around 10 at night from a day trip, but was happy enough once she saw we weren't plastered or anything, just old friends saying a fond farewell (Of course we didn't mention the high-test reefer we had been smoking on the long drive. In those days you could carry marijuana on a plane with little or no risk as long as you didn't light up on board.).

She was a girl who made you wish you were a better person, like Melanie in "Gone With The wind," but real, and so you tried to be on your best behavior around her. Trey's a lucky man and he knew it. Good for him.

Bobby and I left the next morning, flying from Nashville to Chicago before switching planes to New York, the reverse order of our trip down south. Seems that when you fly free on unused bonus miles you get to take some pretty convoluted detours.

In Chicago there was a huge rainstorm which caused us to wander around gigantic O'Hare Airport for three hours and then to sit in the second plane on the runway for another two hours, dying for a cigarette or a drink, which they don't serve before you're airborne.

Any thought of sneaking a smoke in the restroom went poof when a Rastafarian guy with long dreds from Brooklyn that we had met in an airport bar an hour or so earlier was dragged off the plane by police after his reefer blunt set off a smoke alarm, so we sat and waited while it rained a new Lake Michigan on the O'Hare runways.

Bobby had the window seat, and was fairly appalled when the plane started moving in the middle of what looked like a monsoon. He said he hoped we were only moving to another parking spot to wait out the storm or hopefully disembarking us for the duration so we could light up.

Then the captain announced that some storm front or other had lifted and that it was now perfectly safe to take off, although we should expect to experience "some significant turbulence" while we flew around the storm, so please keep your seat belts fastened until further notice. Off we shot down the runway, just as fast as jets do on perfectly dry runways.

I heard Bobby mutter an "Uh,oh" and an "Oh, shit" just as the plane lifted off, but I was feeling okay. I was the one with a fear of flying, not him, but for some strange reason, I had no worries on this flight, while he had plenty.

On the way to Nashville I had gotten drunk before flying, my usual M.O., and spent most of the flight not quite passed out enough to avoid the fear and sweating that you know damned well is completely unreasonable but can't help having anyway. Stubborn things, phobias. Not on the way home, though.

Some flight it was, too. The plane bent, shivered, twisted and swayed as it flew through a hellacious storm, making a pretty impressive array of moans and groans and some ominous I'm-about-to-come-apart-at-the-seams metallic screams while numerous lighting bolts giving us terrifying peeks at the torrential rain blowing sideways.

A lot of barf bags got used on that flight, and some people openly wailed in fright when the plane shook like a towel that had been snapped by some giant hand. From my aisle seat I could see the floor of the plane undulating, writhing and twisting like that same hand was trying to wring the water out of the towel.

The plane held up just fine and eventually we were in glaring sunlight with an unbroken floor of clouds below us as far as the eye could see. Pretty fine piece of engineering, those old 707s. Almost everyone was audibly relieved but very shaken, and more than a few prayers of thanks could be heard.

Even Bobby Dee was a little queasy, and didn't order any whiskey when the stewardess offered some once we were safely stable above the clouds. He was white as a ghost and uncharacteristically quiet.

Not me. I felt fine, and on the worst airplane flight I've ever experienced, my fear of flying left me completely. At least so far. No sense claiming otherwise with irrational fears, they could come back next time I board a plane. I say never say never. Actually, I never really say never say never, but think it from time to time.

Be that as it may, Bobby said that just proved how friggin' crazy I am to be so happy-go-lucky on a flight that had everyone else on the plane making promises to God if He just let them live (presumably while the rest of us suffered a fiery death). But, to the best of my recollection, that's exactly what happened on the way home from a fine old time in Tennessee with some very fine people.

I still think about southern girls who can turn the name Bob into a little three syllable song. Thanks for the miles, Sue. Came in handy in more ways than one.

If I was still a drinking man, this is the part of the program where I'd be hoisting a stiff glass of Jack Daniels to Sue Dee, Little Mama, Trey, Crosby Alonzo James IV and the State of Tennessee. Oh, and also to good old 9-toes Bobby Dee (another story for another time). Cheers, y'all.