We Burn Old People

Because my parents have a strange sense of humor, when I was 12 years old, I was sentenced sent to an English boarding school. One minute, I’m living in New York City. Sixty seconds later, I’m stuck in a real-life Midsomer.

Let me tell ya…. Just because the two nations share a common language doesn’t mean that we’re the same.

As October rolled around, I anxiously anticipated Halloween. My mind was filled with thoughts of costumes, scary movies, and copious amounts of candy. My excitement, however, wasn’t shared by my fellow inmates students. In its place, I noticed a sinister plan developing.

I discovered that my school was filled with bigoted pyromaniacs.

Disgusted and terrified, I ignored the prohibitively expensive overseas phone rates and called my parents.


Mother: “Hello?”

Me: “Mommy? I hate this place. I want to come home.”

Mother: “I understand that you’re homesick but….”

Me: “No! That’s not it. These people are insane. They’re planning to burn old people.”


Mother: “What?”

Me (stifling tears): “No one cares about Halloween. Instead, all they talk about is setting fire to old folks. And it’s not just one or two people. Everyone here hates senior citizens. Each grade is building a fake old person in order to burn it later.”


Mother: “Old people?”

Me: “YES. OLD FOLKS. That what they say. ‘We’re going to burn old folks.’ I don’t want to do it. I just want to wear a costume and watch the Great Pumpkin special.”

Mother: “Let me ask your father about this.”


Mother: “Honey? I think you’re confused. They’re not going to burn ‘old folks’. They’re going to burn ‘Guy Fawkes‘.”

Me (now screaming): “Who the hell is he and what does he have to do with Halloween?”

The rest of the conversation is a bit of a blur. However, I can still remember my mother laughing hysterically.

In case you’re wondering, I’ve never been able to live down this incident. Proof? My father gave me this cake yesterday.

May your Halloween be filled with fun, family, and inflammable old folks.


How do you commemorate a human life?  How can you pay your respects and honor someone you loved?  Let’s see…  You could build a majestic mosemleum to stand as a (pardon the pun) concrete reminder of the dearly departed.  Perhaps, a living memorial is more appropriate and you name a child after the long-gone loved one.  Or, you could take Grandma’s ashes and compress them into a crappy diamond.  Wait.  What?

Out there in the big, bad and really, really disturbing world there are companies that, for a few thousand dollars, will take someone’s remains and magically transform them into a gemstone.  I like to refer to this as the “Ash, Smash and Cash” process.

The companies say they use a “pressurized process” to accomplish this feat.  I’m not falling for that old excuse.  I’m pretty sure they really use sorcery, naked dances under a new moon and puppy blood.  However, in all fairness, I’ve used those three things for lots of stuff myself.

I realize I’m probably a bit more neurotic than the average bear but….  this whole idea seems fraught with problems.  Very awkward problems.

Do I really want to wear my grandmother on my hand?  Clearly, I’ll never use that hand again for wiping.  Or, if I’m “in flagrante delicto” with someone, all action will have to cease while I remove Gran from my finger.  There are certain activities in which she shouldn’t be included.

What if the stone is stolen?  Gran is now in the possession of a tweaking scumbag.  Maybe he let’s his crack-whore girlfriend wear Gran for a little while.  Great.  Gran now gets a front-row seat to “Junkies Gone Wild”.  Of course, that’s before Gran is traded in a back alley for crystal meth… a different type of rock, altogether.

Eventually, Gran ends up in a pawn shop being “fingered” by strangers on a regular basis.  She gets more action in death than she ever did while she had a pulse.  Hmm….  Maybe it isn’t such a bad idea, after all.

Let’s get the obvious out of the way.  All cultures are different.  Practices that are acceptable in one society are totally taboo in another.  Blah… Blah… Blah.  However, let’s get to the real point.  Some cultures are BETTER than others.  I bet you think I’m going to embark on a tirade about the superiority of Western norms, don’t you?  Well, I would.  But, honestly, who wants to deal with the hate mail?  So, let’s take a different tack.

I publicly announce my preference for the customs of the aboriginal natives of the Andaman Islands.  (Didn’t see that one coming, did ya?)  We’re so dull in the West.  We greet one another with a handshake.  Or, if we’re really familiar, arms are opened for a hug.  The evil among us will employ the pretentious “air kiss”.  However, Andaman men have an entirely different method.

They take hold of their salutary shaft and wag it in your direction.

He’s just saying “hi”.  I think.

Think how this custom could benefit our society.  Have a contentious business meeting in the future?  Don’t fear.  If you’re brandishing a bodacious boner, the opposing side will flaccidly fall back.

The dating world would be revolutionized.  Tedious hours of small talk and flirting will be abbreviated depending upon the abbreviation of the appendage in question.  Bars will finally be free of the herds of salacious singles thus returning the Kingdom of Booze to its rightful rulers:  drunks.

All in all, I think we could borrow a page from the Andaman natives’ etiquette book.  Mind you, we just need to flip past the chapter that describes their other greeting ritual – their habit of lobbing spears at strangers.  That just seems uncivilized.

When I rule the world, the day after Halloween will be named a National Day of Remembrance.  Not only will everyone light a candle for the millions of candy corns that willingly gave their lives the previous evening but, as a group, we shall take a moment to absorb the important life-lessons imparted to us via the 24/7 horror-film festivals.

In case you weren’t taking notes, here are a few gems of wisdom:

1. Nature blows chunks.  It isn’t a grand, awe-inspiring experience.  It isn’t the canvas upon which God created sublime beauty.   The woods are merely a repository for psychos and degenerates who will rape, kill and cannibalize the unsuspecting…. not necessarily in that order.  In other words, nature contains inbred mountain people.  Of course, as a New Yorker, I’m suspicious of any greenery that isn’t either part of a salad or located within Central Park.

2. Port-A-Potties are “Crappers of Death”.  More times than not, they’re the ideal hiding spot for machete-wielding sadists or itinerant zombie foot-soldiers.  I can hear you protesting.  “But the door is open and I can see that no one is inside.”  If that puts your mind at ease, clearly, you haven’t been watching enough horror.  Go ahead… drop your knickers and have a seat but don’t come whining to me when a slimy tentacle emerges from the bowels of the bowl to attack your unsuspecting and vulnerable ass.  Nope.  If I gotta “go”, I’ll hold it until I get home.

3. The “Slut Conundrum”.  Everyone knows that the chick who “puts out” will be the first to “check out”.  So, it would seem reasonable to steer clear of the local chlamydia factory.  (Actually, that sounds like rather good advice regardless of the situation.)  However, I posit an alternative theory.  I view the local skank as the “canary in the mineshaft”.  After all, it’s not as though she’s a stranger to shafts.  Keep a tramp around as an early-detection system.  When she’s screwed… I mean nailed… I mean killed, you know it’s time to get your own priggish self to safety.

4. A short-cut will lead to a long night.  Never, I repeat, never ask someone for the shortest route to a destination.  The toothless guy in dirty overalls at the solitary gas station doesn’t have your best interests at heart.  Hard to believe, isn’t it?  He’s working hand in hand (or “hand in lobster-boy’s misshapen claw”) with the “locals”.  Since you’re not having sex with your embalmed sister, you aren’t a “local”.  “Scooter the pump jockey” doesn’t really care if you can shave 90 minutes off your journey.  Nope.  He’s wondering how long it will take to shave your mandible into an attractive coat hook .

I’m considering pitching a movie idea to some studio execs.  It’s the story of a nature walk that goes horribly wrong when two nymphos take a short-cut to use the crapper.  Personally, I think the script writes itself.

There are few things that suck more than going to the dentist.  In fact, it’s hard to imagine something worse than a root canal.  Oh, wait.  I just thought of something worse.  How about getting an STD while you’re there?  Yup.  That sucks more.

In my opinion, if you’re going to contract a sexually transmitted disease, you should at least get to have sex.  There’s something karmically unfair about “getting clap” without “getting off”.

This brings me to a delightful dental procedure called “transplanting”.  It’s a WTF moment if ever there were one.

front teeth

The above image is a wanted ad looking for front teeth.  Let me say that again.  The dentist is looking to buy front teeth. I doubt you find that even on Craigslist.

Pretend you’re living in the 1700’s.  Your teeth are like everyone else’s.  That is to say:  Your teeth are rotten, stinking and generally resemble a badger’s ass.  What’s a person to do?  Here’s a thought.  Get some new ones!  For the right price, you can get some spankin’ new teeth.  Well…  Not “new”, really.  They’re “slightly used’.

During “transplanting”, the dentist pulls your bad tooth.  So far, so good.  Painful but not freaky.  Not yet.  The doc goes into another room that’s filled with desperate bastards willing to sell healthy teeth.  Yup.  Sell teeth.  So, Dr. de Sade extracts a perfectly healthy tooth from one of the blighters.

Helpful Tip: Have a few “donors” on hand in case the first extracted tooth doesn’t fit.

The newly liberated tooth is then jammed into the empty, aching socket of the recipient.  The practice fell out of favor when patients began to acquire whatever diseases the original tooth’s owner had.  The most commonly contracted  disease? Syphilis.

Moral?  When you pull out and shove in, you may get an STD.  Everyone knows that’s backwards.  You need to shove in and then pull out.

Let’s be clear.  I’m shallow.  I like good-looking people.  I only flirt with good-looking people.  I judge the book by its cover.  If your flesh cover doesn’t appeal to me, there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that I’ll be interested.  (I’ll give you time to pass judgment on me and say, “Oh my God. How can she be so superficial?”  Are you done yet?  Ok.  I’ll continue.)  In the hormone-fueled world of the internet, a profile photo allows me to make a snap judgement.  With that in mind, may I make a suggestion?  If you’re attempting to attract a female, you might not want to scare the hell out of her.



This man is looking for that special someone with whom to share his obsession with the Manson Family.  Nothing says “romance” more than a visit to the Spahn Ranch. He didn’t mean to kill his previous girlfriends.  After chloroforming those two teenagers, he forgot to make sure their airways were unobstructed.  No worries. He has learned his lesson and no longer gags girls with their own underwear.



What girl wouldn’t want to bring a doctor home to meet her parents?  Sure…  He looks like he makes his own surgical instruments.  But, that just means he’s thrifty.

-“Honey, do you know where I put the mellon baller?”  

-“Don’t worry, Mom.  My boyfriend took it.  He’s performing cataract surgery today.”


Mad Scientist 

What girl could resist the charms of this dashing fellow?  Nothing says “sexy” more than a man with a lab coat, a syringe and a variety of unknown bodily fluids.  On the upside, the lucky chica who wins this guy will always vacation in exotic countries that don’t check to confirm his medical credentials.  Where else can he find new “volunteers” for his experiments?

After my last musings, someone mentioned that the penis isn’t the subject of any works of art.  I totally agree.  What artist in his/her right mind would want to glorify something that most of us only want to see right before entry?  And, maybe, not even then.  I mean, even the Greek and Roman artists seemed to avoid the area. Did you ever see their statues?  It’s like they confused “penis” with “thumb.”  If that’s an example of male prowess in antiquity, remind me to never build a time-machine.

Anyway, I began thinking about the “johnson as art”.  That’s an oxymoron.  I suppose the only thing that comes close is the decorative dildo.  And, may I say, who the hell thought that would be a good idea?  Since the real-life subject is so utterly ridiculous looking, why not memorialize it?

This brings me to Ramon Novarro.  He was a delectable silent film star who is now best remembered for his death.  What made his death memorable? I’m so glad you asked.


He was beaten to a bloody pulp by two inbred morons.  However, it was their choice of murder weapon that elevates this into the WTF stratosphere.  They used a lead dildo.  Who doesn’t have one of those around the house?  But wait!  The bizarro train hasn’t reached the station yet.  It was a lead replica of Rudolph Valentino’s dick.  Not only was the man killed by his own possession, he was killed by one of the world’s most embarrassing possessions.

Here’s a little bit of advice.  Never own something that will mark you as a “freak” after your demise.  Don’t own adult diapers unless there’s an old person in your home.  Don’t own rubber sheets.  Don’t own a leash unless you have a dog.  Don’t own anything labeled “commemorative”.  Don’t own anything manufactured by the Franklin Mint.

Most importantly, under no circumcisions…  I mean… circumstances should you ever own a metal replica of someone’s johnson.  They’re much more enjoyable when they’re still attached to the original owner.

I’ve noticed that men have an almost devotional relationship with their penises. They talk about “junior” like it’s a separate entity.  Sometimes, they give it a name of its very own.  I have yet to meet a woman who does that with her genitalia. Speaking for myself, I don’t call my breasts “Thelma and Louise” or “Tom and Jerry”. Truthfully, I don’t think they would even respond to those names.

Considering how much men like their organ, it’s a shame they can’t actually date themselves.  I mean, wouldn’t it be convenient if men could take their penises out to dinner, go see a movie and, ultimately, make the moves on themselves?

This brings me to the thrust… I mean… point of my argument.  Men are so enamored with their johnsons, they think everyone else is equally enthralled. What else explains their constant invitations to display the family jewels?  Of all the delights that the computer-age has delivered, the web cam is the least appealing.


See Dick1

“hello baby, you want to see my dick on web cam?”

The only way I want to see your dick is if it’s removed from your body and submerged in a bottle of formaldehyde.  If I see your “man meat”, I fear I’ll never want to date another man in my life. 


See DIck2

“hi trish i can show you my cock i swear respond me please”

I’m sure you can show me but it’s not necessary.  Really.  I’m not sure why you need to “swear”.  Do you think that I doubt your earnestness?  I honestly don’t.  I admire the fact that you request an R.S.V.P.  Evidently, you’re a stickler for etiquette.



“wanna see my hard cock?  cybercock_@******”

Sweet baby jeebus.  Let me count the ways in which I don’t want to see that. Thank you for promising me that you would be hard because that really sweetens the deal. However, I don’t want to see your “love spear” hard, flaccid or any condition in-between. While your email address certainly is truth in advertising, I think a more appropriate choice would have been:



(Nota Bene ~ Some of you have asked if I actually know the men who send such erudite messages.  Ummm…  Have you seen the men on my “Friend List”?  It’s populated with the interesting and the attractive.  I’ve seen road kill that’s better looking and wittier than these ads for abstinence.)

Mother’s Day…  A day on which we’re meant to celebrate all the wondrous joys that constitute “motherhood”.  Unless, of course, you have my mother.

The popular image of a mother is a woman who kisses away tears and bakes cookies.

If a child is unfortunate enough to cry around my maternal unit, he/she would hear the following, “Feeling sorry for yourself, aren’t you?”  Plus, my mother has never been in our kitchen.

Some mothers collect dolls, teddy bears or Hummel figurines.  My mother collects rocks.  No.  Really.

Some mothers just tie their hair back, throw on some jeans and take the little tykes to the park.  I went to Elizabeth Arden with my “dressed-to-kill” mother for 5 hours at a time while her hair was streaked.  Instead of heading to the park after the hairdresser, my mother took me to The Plaza for lunch.

I think you can see a pattern developing.

You would think that when a mother drops her only child off at college, she would offer words of wisdom.  Some parting information that she wishes to convey.  Maybe something like, “Study hard” or “Make friends” or even, “Be careful”.  Do you know what my mother called out to me as her car was driving off into the horizon?

“Make sure you coordinate your clothes.”

Truth be told, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Mommy Park

P.S.  True to form, when my Mommy saw this photo, she said, “It’s a shame I didn’t have highlights in my hair that day.”  I rest my case.




This ad asks the question, “If you died today, what would happen to your family’s future?”  Looking at the “grieving widow”, I think that answer is rather obvious. She’s going to spend the insurance money on sin, sex and other sensual and salacious sports.

Does the insurance company really think that this ad campaign will encourage men to buy policies?

This widow, who I’ve christened “Lolita Lottalips“, looks anything but upset about her husband’s passing.  In fact, it looks like Ms. Lottalips may have given hubby a helping hand into the grave.  I mean, it wouldn’t take much.  A rickety ladder, a supposed need for something on a high shelf and..  PRESTO!  Lolita’s days are filled with shopping and her nights are filled with the pool boy.  Or, rather, she’s filled with the pool boy.

If an afterlife exists, her recently cold and stiff husband is watching Lolita make other men hot and stiff.  Showing up at the funeral dressed like a femme fatale might be a clue that her grieving process includes full-body contact.

Let’s face it.  The newly fatherless boy, who I’ve named Timmy, won’t be spending much quality time with Mommy in the future.  Unless, of course, bringing Mommy her martini counts as “quality time”.  Lolita is going to wait until he’s a little older before she pays any attention to him.  That way, she’ll be able to make inappropriate passes at Timmy’s school chums.

(And, “chum” is what they would be.  I think she might be a shark.)

Now that I think about it, I believe Lolita Lottalips may be my new hero.  Hmm…..

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