Tuesday, July 10, 2012


As we all pray for a cure for cancer, here's another thing to hope for:  An alternative to barbaric chemotherapy which ravages the body with horrific side effects. And will somebody rationalize the apparent unwillingness of the medical profession to administer pot or THC as an aid to combat this injection of poison. If ever a situation cries out for getting high, this is it. In California, with an easily obtainable prescription, one can shop at a pot store and browse from many different available species. It is the most effective way of reducing/eliminating the side effects of chemo. SO WHY ISN'T IT PUT TO THIS USE?


I submit to you the scale-tipper in the election-selection decision: The fact that the wealth class shall vote for Romney is, at least, understandable. If you have more, it's human nature to want to keep/enlarge it. President Obama has already proven his allegiance to the middle and lower income classes. Let's be realistic. Mitt Romney is not an evil man. He has proven skills which he shall, without reservation, dedicate to the his version of the betterment of America. The sky will not fall if he is elected, looking at him personally. In full disclosure, he's not my choice but we've survived with worse. The cause for great concern is this: The economy is in bad shape. Don't be naive. It is  not going to miraculously recover by November. We're in for a long haul. It's not the President's fault, but it's his political Achilles Heel. In this climate, financially suffering people become susceptible to the rantings of demagogues. History shows this. Neither Democrats nor moderate Republicans are embraced by this catagory. There is, however, a faction out there which has already infected our Congress and whch simply won't go away. They are zealots to the extreme and it's either their way or the highway. They are cult-like in their philosophy, dangerous and must be taken seriously. They are blind to practical common sense and ruthless to those within their gunsights. They abhor the protection of the federal government from which they want "to take the country back." They believe that reason and compromise are dirty words. Will they succeed in "playing" the floundering economy card as a means of capturing the votes of those who are monetarily disadvantaged? Pray that they don't. The only preventive means available to escape from the clutches of the Tea Party is to vote Democratic.


The Mob should again run Vegas. Those were the days! Really big stars in the main rooms while the lounges featured A-list known-names entertainers. Frequent visitors always received a "comp", you had to wear at least a sports jacket to a showtime dinner and everybody was happy. The theory behind this form of management was that if the main room or the lounge lost money, that was O.K. The patrons would be put into a good mood and this led directly to the casino which always made loot. When Howard Hughes and the corporate mentality took over, each operation had to make money on its own. The restaurants, the coffee shops, the lounges, the main rooms and even the hotel itself was not exempt. They all had to individually show a profit or heads would roll. Contracts were torn up without regard to legal consequences because, practically speaking, there weren't any. You gonna sue a casino corporation in Vegas? You won't find a lawyer. So the entire atmosphere changed. No more lounge acts. No more freely-issued comps. Every employee is constantly expecting to get fired. There is no dress code save for the requirement that you can't walk around naked. You think The Boys could be cold-hearted? Try pissing-off the Suits. Let whatever is left of the Mob come back in.


More Random Harvests whenever.
As Mrs. Cassidy said to Mr. Cassidy, let's hop-a-long.

Saturday, July 7, 2012


She punched me right in the mouth, followed by an uppercut to the jaw and a kick in the balls. It was at that moment that I realized I had fallen in love.

I was young and naive and never saw it coming. A judo chop to the back of my neck. My sexual appetite was unleashed and I became obsessed with her. Everything she did intensified my desire. When she tied me to a chair and whipped my thighs, I asked her to marry me between lashes.

She was constantly showering me with affection in the shower. I must confess that flushing my eyes with WD-40 really turned me on. When she would waterboard me in the tub, I thought I would burst with lust. For our first anniversary, she inserted bamboo shoots under my fingernails and I knew I had met my soulmate.

She understood that love required consistent reinforcement, thus always surprising me with tokens of passion. Like the time she made me go through the whole day with melted Crisco in my crotch. Or flaunting her sumptuous breasts in my face after feeding me saltpeter for breakfast. Or insisting on going naked to dinner parties. Or making me wear a dress to work.

It was vital to perpetuate the perception that she had married a stud, thus the commissioning of Ralph Lauren to design tailor-made iron jockey shorts that sort-of fit me like a glove. When we would make love, she would pour ice water on my genitals immediately prior to my imminent orgasm.

We celebrated our twentieth anniversary with a ferocious night of love- making. She planned it to perfection by forcing me, at gunpoint, to assume a position wherein my arms and legs were tied to the bedpost. She broke my back and giggled for hours.

She just returned from shopping at Home Depot, having purchased a generator, electrical wires, a bucket and a sponge. Is it any wonder that I love her so?

Wednesday, July 4, 2012


A German court has just ruled that circumcision constitutes "bodily harm" and it cannot be performed until the lad is "old enough" to understand and consent. Mohels, by the hundreds, are retaining bankruptcy attorneys.

In the Jewish religion, the male child is circumcised eight days after birth. I've attended a few and found it to be a barbaric ritual. The child screams in pain while the adults wait to holler "mazel tov" and dig into a sumptuous feast. It's a joyous occasion for family and friends, but not for the little guy.
I'd dive for the booze, pretending it to be psychiatrically necessary to cope with the sounds of pain. In those days, any reason was valid. "Into the mouth and over the gums, watch out stomach, here it comes."

The only recollection I have of my own Bris is the smiling face of the Mohel as he commenced with the words, "It won't be long now."

I'm still searching for the guy to effectuate payback.