Unnoticed in Clever Worlds

The clearest description I have managed so far about my blog is that it is not about cats. In general, I find predators pretty predictable while prey on the other-hand, because they live in universes of anxiety, develop more textured personalities. I also have as a writer a deft hand when it comes to making matters worse, so of course , the already panicky are ready made for me. I will try to grow this blog into an assortment of laughs, because that is what my life has mostly taught me to do. I will use the famous people I have known to get your attention and then tell you small but many times wonderful things about them. I will never name the ones I say ugly things about but I hope you will guess who they are.

Month: June, 2018

Don’t look , No Matter what

We Liberals, are hysterically worried about children crossing into the country and being separated. I just hope our friends the Black people don’t start looking around and wondering why their fathers and mothers are sitting in jail and their families have been destroyed for generations. This while they are all citizens and Democrats.

The Blood of my Soccer Forefathers

Unlike that dopey woman in the “Ancestry” TV commercials, I am delighted to find no Native Americans in my family tree. They don’t field a soccer team, so I have dodged a hereditary bullet.
With the elimination of the U.S. from the World Cup I had to scurry to find teams to identify with superficially. Usually, this is a simple matter of choosing my race and proceeding from there. But this athletic event is far different. Typically we Nordics can be counted on to win everything. But the devious nature of this “no hands sport” offers little in size and winter coat advantage, so I was compelled to grope through my ancestors praying for any connection to blood from south of the border. I found none.
Just as gloom was setting in, however, I discovered that one of my great, great aunts had been fucking some guy from Iceland. Go Iceland!!!!!

We are all so smart

Most Republicans and Democrats are pathetic but not stupid. Each hates Trump for their own particular and fully valid reasons. He is challenging everything they have stolen or been promised. We could end up with what was before, something entirely different, or civil war. I know everything will be OK though, because we are all so smart.

I have abused my senses mercilessly, it is no wonder I am tired. By Regis Boff

The Little Lifetimes of First love

The little lifetimes of first love
All whirling and crashing.
About your heart
like snowflakes
all different
all the same
till one does not melt


National Anthems

Soccer reminds us that every national anthem eventually resulted in the beheading of its composer.

The dogs of war

I came to the conclusion years ago that I am most contented when owning and scratching at least one dog while I watch U.S. land wars on TV.

At its first signs, it’s too late.

Stupidity, like homosexuality can not be cured.


I have attained a personal plateau today. I can no longer remember with certainty if I ever said “groovy”.

The Who: Keith Moon Bellboy Pope

Keith Moon was working as the doorman at the Navarro Hotel in New York when Pope Paul VI died. It was August 6, 1978. He was fittingly dressed in a six-foot-long Indian Chieftain headdress.
According to the hotel manager, he was being cordial to the arriving guests as he carried their bags to the front desk. He passed all his tips to the real bellman.
He charged into our suite with a long kite’s tail of groupies, bellboys and our panting security guys still wearing his hat.
“Have you got the news yet?” He was nearly moaning with excitement. “Some Pope is dead! I heard it from a bloke from Indianapolis as I was doing his bags.”
He whirled on Anne Wheldon our publicist who on a standard day is too high-strung to take a deep breath. “Anne,” he commanded,” get me someone on the line right now from The New York Times and Billboard Magazine.”
He started to wring his hands, “Go right to the top. I am throwing my hat into this Papal ring.”
She got somebody from the Times within minutes.
He hunched over the phone. We hung on his side of the conversation.”
That’s right, I have wanted to leave the band for years”, he confirmed.
“No, I am not Catholic,” he paused sensing his own tactical error.” “Yet,” he attached.
“And don’t let that motherfucker Mick Jagger hear about this, he is the devil you know.” quickly covering a loose base.
He put both hands over the phone and with confusion in his eyes yelled at us, ” Fuck, he wants to know what I think qualifies me to be the next Pope.” Ever quick, Bill Curbishley shouted back to him” Tell him twenty-five platinum albums.”


%d bloggers like this: