Friday, January 11, 2019

The Week In Tweets: Special Belated Edition!

President Obama (about business owners): "You didn't do that!"
President Trump (about President Trump's accomplishments): "I did that!"
Before you say something that will hurt another person's feelings, first think about it, then think about it again...
...then don't.
Oh, look!
ANOTHER glorious Monday!
...makes me sick.
Fake News Reports!
Harvey Weinstein Presents!
Trumpenstein Versus The Obamonster!
WHO will win on Election Tuesday?
I'm not saying my ex is fat, but, when she loss ten pounds, it was like cutting the tail off a cow.
"Here you go, sir. A double scoop of Ben & Jerry's Pecan Resist ice cream, which honors Democrats' most cherish principles."
So the American Taxpayer will be paying for it?
The Sierra Blanca Border Patrol checkpoint.
If their intention is to back up freeway traffic on I-10 East for half and hour, then they're doing a good job.
My father always said, "Put your eggs in one basket, and then watch that basket."
My father.
He never had money, but he always had eggs.
Good things come to those who wait.
Of course, waiting gets old pretty quick.
Success 101
If you ever need a helping hand, it's at the end of your arm.
Fake News Reports!
California Wildfires!
Over 30 Dead!
Over 200 Missing!
And with the president in Paris, there's no way to blame it on Trump!
"But we'll find a way," Fake News promises.
Fake News Reports!
Caitlyn Jenner Loses Home To The California Wildfires!
"Sorry, but you're thinking about my hoo-hah," the former Bruce Jenner says.
Fake News Reports!
Miley Cyrus Loses Home To The California Wildfires!
"I'm one of the lucky ones," she says. "My animals, the love of my life, and my pot all survived."
My wife will follow me to the end of the earth.
Unfortunately, that's where my other wife lives.
I know some people have nothing to say, but why does it have to take so long to find that out?
The Three Things I Want Out Of Life:
1) Love
2) Respect
3) Acceptance
...but I'll settle for a pizza.
When it snows, you have two choices: mope or make snow angels.
My dad says I'm lucky because I'm a kid and I don't have to worry about work or bills or taxes or insurance or home maintenance or car payments or...
...but I sure do have to listen to a lot of complaining.
Fake News Reports!
White House Thanksgiving Turkey PARDONS President Trump!
100% of my problems occur while I'm awake, so I'm going back to bed.
You can't argue with math.
Happy Monday!
This Is The Best Day EVER!
(In case you missed it, this is called "sarcasm.")
I respect my elders.
Although, at MY age, it's getting harder to find any.
I don't mind my ex always having to have the last word.
What I mind is how long it takes her to GET to the last word.
Autocorrect can go straight to he'll.
Is it possible to still enjoy the Sisteen Chapel if you haven't seen chapels one through fisteen first?
Fake News Reports!
At Bush 41's funeral services, when I was paying my respects to the five living presidents in attendance, while Bill distracted me from the front, Hillary tried to steal my wallet from behind.
Fake News Reports!
Everyone was moved at Bush 41's funeral services when Hillary broke down over the coffin, crying hysterically.
The mood changed, however, when it was discovered that was just a cover for her trying to steal the gold fillings out of the dead president's mouth.
Fake News Reports!
WHO Are The Three RICHEST Celebrities?
George Lucas!
Steven Spielberg!
Oprah Winfrey!
Each Worth Billion$!
And they all think YOU should pay more in taxes.
American Chimpanzee

Sunday, January 6, 2019

The Year In Review

as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
They don’t make westerns and war movies the way they used to, but you can always count on Sylvester Stallone to come out with another Rocky movie.
    Recently, my wife and I took my father to see Creed 2, and I'm not just saying that because the Italian Stallion paid me to. As we were waiting for the movie to start, my wife offered me a gummy bear. I took a few because they're my favorite. Don't ask me why.
    As I was chewing on one, enjoying every gummy morsel, I made the mistake of inhaling. When I inhaled, the candy got sucked in with the oxygen and lodged in my windpipe... sort of. It would have lodged completely if I had followed my first instinct to gasp in a huge lung-full of air, but I didn't. Instead, to dislodge the almost-stuck candy, I tried to expel what little air I had. It wasn't a whole lot, but it was enough. It pushed the little booger out of the way enough for me to take a careful breath and then cough the rest of the candy out. It wasn’t jammed in there, but it would have been if I had panicked.
    My wife, meanwhile, saw what was happening and gave me a couple of whacks on my back, but by that time the worst was over.
    "That was scary," she said.
    "For me, too," I admitted.
    "Yeah," my father agreed, his mouth full of popcorn, "I was afraid I wouldn't get to see the movie."
    When my phone rang, the last thing I expected was to hear my daughter crying on the other end. She hasn’t been married for very long, and she and her husband had just had their first big fight and she wanted to come home.
     It broke my heart, but I told her she was home.
    I was out with my grandson the other day. We were at Sears, looking at what lawn equipment might be on sale. He pointed to a shiny new lawnmower. It was fire engine red.
     "You should get one of those,” he said.
    “I already have one,” I told him.
     "You do?"
     “Yeah... YOU!”
    Sometimes taking my father to his various doctor appointments is a chore. On this occasion, my wife was with us because there were other things we needed to get done. It was pretty obvious that I was having trouble finding the street the doctor’s office was located on, but my wife was kind enough not to mention it.
    When I finally found the office, I said, “Whew! I didn't know how to get here.”
    “I don’t believe that for a second,” my wife told me.
    “Why not?”
    “Because you certainly know how to get everywhere when I’M driving.”
    The forecast said rain.
    Personally, I didn’t think so, but my father disagreed. Pointing out the window, he told me, “Son, those are some serious clouds out there.”
    “Those aren’t cirrus clouds,” I answered him, misunderstanding. “They’re cumulus.”
    Giving me the stink eye, my father did his best impression of Tuco from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, and said, “There are two kinds of clouds in the world, my friend. Those that are serious, and those that aren’t.”
    I know we live in the time of Uber, but my father and I were doing my buddy Maloney a favor and dropping him and his family off at the airport. Thanksgiving is one of the busiest times of the year to travel, so the porters were overwhelmed and Slip, his nickname at work, wasn’t able to get the attention of one to help them with their luggage.
    “Oh, man,” he whined, “we’re going to miss our flight.”
    “Let me have a twenty,” my father told him.
    Maloney hesitated, but Slip's mother-in-law gave him a quick elbow to the ribs.
    “Give it to him,” she ordered, and then gave my father a flirtatious smile.
    Though surprised, Maloney opened his wallet. Pulling out a twenty, he handed it over.
    My father raised it in the air.
    Almost immediately, we had three skycaps running over to help us.
    My wife is an excellent cook, but somehow, on my birthday, the cake she had made for me was crumbling badly, even with her best attempts to hold everything in place with frosting.
    “Hey, that cake’s just like you,” my father told me when he saw it. “It’s falling apart.”
    I don’t know why, but my father likes to go shopping with us. Not so much with me, but with my wife. I think it’s because my wife never tells him no when he wants to toss some useless item that he’ll never use or eat into our cart.
    The line we were in wasn’t long, especially compared to the other lines, and two older ladies looking to save time were making their way to us.
    “That one looks good,” one lady told the other, nodding in the direction of my father.
    “Sorry, ladies” my father said, “I’m married.”
Line up at,, or @JimDuchene for free laughs.

Wednesday, December 26, 2018

The Week In Tweets: Special Day After Christmas Edition!

Santa should spread his deliveries out over the course of a year.
Doing it all in one night is a classic example of bad management.
Each year I have a bigger Christmas tree than the year before.
That's the best thing about having a dirt floor.
Who said: "Ask, that ye shall receive."?
I'm guessing Santa Claus.
I'm not materialistic.
You can get me anything you want for Christmas... long as you wrap it in cash.
American Chimpanzee

Tuesday, December 11, 2018

Nobody Likes A Poopy Diaper

as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
Nobody, that is, except me.
    I’ve always considered it a privilege to change my children’s diapers.
    Other kids?
    Not so much.
    In fact, not at all.
    Change is inevitable, and this is especially true when it comes to dirty diapers, but since nature has effectively kept men in general, and me in particular, out of the equation when it comes to baby-raising duties that bond the parent with the child--such as childbirth and breastfeeding--I had to take my bonding moments where I could find them, and I’m not talking about in the pages of an Ian Fleming novel.
    Thinking about it, maybe that’s why children are closer to their mothers than their fathers. That reminds me of something I heard happens in prison. In prison, prisoners are invited every Mother’s Day to send their beloved mothers cards that the penal institutions supply to them for free, and every year the prisons run out of cards and stamps. On Father’s Day, however, the prisoners have the same opportunity, but those very same penitentiaries end up with more Father’s Day cards leftover than they know what to do with. I don’t know if this is true, but it sounds true, and that’s good enough for me.
    Now, briefly, this isn’t a dissertation on male/female abilities, it’s a discussion about poopy diapers, so let’s leave social politics out of it. Although, now that I think about it, politics and the contents of a poopy diaper seem to go hand in hand, as you no doubt noticed in last month’s election. When you think about it, politicians are like diapers. They should also be changed quite frequently, and for the same reason.
    I always got deep satisfaction changing my youngest daughter’s diapers because it was one thing my baby couldn’t do for herself. When she was hungry as an infant, if my wife put a breast to her mouth, instinct would take over and she would suckle. What could I do? Take her on a walk? Maybe, but that would take some actual physical effort on my part, such as walking.
    “Come on,” I would playfully tell her. “Let’s pick ‘em up and put ‘em down.”
    But she was happy just to lay there.
    Needless to say, I was in love.
    Maybe she couldn’t walk, but, really, where does an infant need to go?
    Poopy diapers, besides being unsanitary, must be uncomfortable. Sadly, babies have to sit in their own waste until someone notices, and I always considered it MY job to notice. Sometimes I noticed too well, and changed diapers that were perfectly clean.
    “Do you KNOW how expensive diapers are?” my lovely wife would chastise.
    I gladly took the chastisement. Better that a hundred clean diapers be thrown away, than one dirty diaper remain attached to my daughter’s bottom one second longer than is necessary, to paraphrase Benjamin Franklin in a way he probably never expected. (Voltaire and Sir William Blackstone are also credited with saying a version of this, but I don’t trust a man with only one name. As for Blackstone, isn’t he a magician? What does a magician know about changing diapers?)
    My father, on the other hand, never changed a diaper in his life. It was a different time, so I’ve been told.
    I suppose that’s true.
    But, remembering how my little girl would smile and talk to me as I was changing her diaper, I can’t help but feel that my father missed out on one of life’s greatest joys.
    Greater than chocolate, even.
    “Does baby need her widdle diaper changed?” I would baby-talk.
    “Goo-goo, ga-ga,” she would answer, which was her way of saying, “Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot.” Sometimes, she would lift her tiny hands and try to snatch the eyeglasses off my face.
    In time, I became a diaper-changing expert, offering unsolicited advice to anyone polite enough to listen.
    “When it comes to girls, be sure to wipe AWAY from the main event.”
    “Make sure that diaper’s not too tight.”
    “These are not the droids you’re looking for. Move along.”
    I also advised new parents to wash their hands BEFORE they changed their baby’s diapers, not just after. “You don’t know WHAT you’ve touched,” I would tell them like an employee of the CDC, “and you don’t WANT to know.” Another bit of advice was to be sure to wipe down the baby changing stations in public restrooms. I’m not saying that the people who use it before you are filthy animals, but they probably are.
    I remember my father once watching me change an especially messy diaper.
    “You know,” he sniffed, “I never changed ANY of my children’s diapers.”
     He was proud of that personal achievement.
    “I know, pop,” I said. “I know.”
Another thing I change frequently? My content at,, or @JimDuchene.

Monday, November 5, 2018

Shrimp For Dinner

as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
"Dad, I'm cooking shrimp for dinner," my wife says. "Would you like regular or coconut?"
     Meanwhile, the guy who's actually helping make dinner--namely me--his opinion goes unrequested.
     I really can't get upset. My wife's just trying to make my father feel at home. It wasn't that long ago my beloved mother passed away. After a brief time of him living on his own, we decided to ask him to move in with us. It's not a decision I regret. Given the opportunity, I would do it all over again, but it's been tough. You can't have two alpha males in the same wolf pack without one wolf becoming incredibly annoyed at the other.
     "What?" my father says.
     "I'm cooking shrimp for dinner."
     "You're cooking dinner?"
     "What are you cooking?"
     "Yes, shrimp. Would you like regular or coconut?"
     I turn my head so my wife can't see me laughing. That's what she gets for not asking me how I would like the shrimp prepared. I can feel her eyes boring into the back of my head like angry twin lasers. She knows I'm finding amusement at her expense.
     "Shrimp..." my father continues, "...shrimp.... Yeah, that sounds good."
     "Would you like regular or coconut?"
     "What are you yelling at me for?" my father yells back. "I can hear."
     It's true, my father can hear. Unfortunately, he only seems to hear the things he not supposed to hear.
     "Pop!" I could yell. "There's a fire! Grab your mutt and get out!"
     "What?" my father would say, not moving his eyes off the TV.
     "A FIRE! GET OUT!"
     "What are you yelling at me for? I can hear!" he'd yell back. And then, "Are you grilling chicken? Save me a leg."
     On the other hand, my father could be sitting down in his Tommy Johns, watching his two favorite baseball teams playing each other on TV, and I could be in the next room with my wife. If I leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Let's go upstairs," my father would shout to us, "If you're going upstairs, bring me back that blanket I like."
     Meanwhile, my wife apologizes for yelling, and my father says, "What kind of shrimp did you say?"
     Regular or coconut."
     "Hmm... regular. What's the other kind?"
     "Coconut? Yeah... I like coconut."
     "So you want coconut, then?"
     "What's the other kind?"
     My wife is getting flustered now.
     I'm still chuckling under my breath.
     Personally, I prefer coconut, but no one's asking my opinion. I don't know why she's giving him a choice. He'll eat anything that even resembles food. If my wife feels like eating regular shrimp, she should make regular shrimp. If she feels like eating coconut shrimp, she should make coconut shrimp. It's that simple. You see, my  wife has the good fortune of being married to someone who appreciates whatever she cooks.
     "Regular," my wife says.
     "What's regular?" my father wants to know.
     My wife sighs, and then explains how she prepares regular shrimp. I don't think my father understands a word of it. Heck, even my  eyes start to glaze over.
     "I like coconut," my father says, probably afraid she'll go over her explanation again, so coconut shrimp it is. I win, without even having to play the game. And I got a good chuckle out of it as well.
     I remember when I was a kid, my mother never cooked shrimp, those little cockroaches of the sea. The closest thing my mother ever cooked was liver, and that's not close at all. To eat that liver, I added a lot of ketchup to get it down. A LOT of ketchup. In those days, what you were served is what you ate. If you chose not to eat, you went hungry. The way it should be. Go to any country where people are starving. You don't have picky eaters. You don't have eating disorders. You don't have morbid obesity. What you have is a country of people who would be grateful for some mudwater and a chickpea.
     So, even though I might have preferred a hamburger, I ate pretty much whatever was place in front of me, adding ketchup to whatever I didn't like.
     Heck, I even added ketchup to scrambled eggs, and I like scrambled eggs.
     Why am I telling you all this? Because my wife takes her time when she cooks, and makes everything from scratch. She cooks with love, and, as that great philosopher Diana Ross sang, "You can't hurry love."
     Finally, my wife serves all of us a delicious plate of coconut shrimp on a bed of tropical rice. I take a quick inventory. Hmm... my father's got seven. I've only got six. Not that I'm keeping score or anything.
     As my father stares at his plate, my wife serves herself and joins us. My father continues studying his plate.
     Who knows?
     I get started on mine.
     I don't believe in having a staring contest with my food.
     "Do you have any ketchup?" my father finally asks.
     "It's coconut shrimp, dad," my wife says softly.
     "It's coconut shrimp."
     "I know what it is," my father says. "Do you have any ketchup?"
     I step in.
     "Pop, it's coconut shrimp. You don't put ketchup on coconut shrimp."
     "Sure you do," he says.
     My wife doesn't argue. She doesn't say a word. She just gets up, brings back a bottle of ketchup, and hands it to my father, who drowns his shrimp with it, much like I used to do to the liver my mother would also cook with love. I find myself wishing I could tell her, "I'm sorry."
     My father spears a soggy shrimp with his fork.
     "Oh, yeah," he says between chomps, "this shrimp is good."
     He turns to me.
     "Your wife is a good cook," he says.
You can't hurry love, but you CAN hurry to,, or to @JimDuchene and read more of my nonsense.

Wednesday, October 31, 2018

The Week In Tweets: Special Undead McCain Edition!

Hammer Films Presents!
Zombie McCain!
"When there is no more room in Hell... John McCain will walk the earth!"
Just in time for Halloween!
Hammer Films Presents!
Dracula Vs The Monster!
Starring John McCain as the fey political bloodsucker and Ron Jeremy as the foul-smelling Dr. Crapenstein!
Fake News Reports!
John McCain Comes Back From The Dead!
MURDERS Dennis Hoff!
"My 'little soldier' hasn't saluted since Viet Nam," he admitted to Ron Jeremy. "If I'M not getting any, NOBODY'S getting any!"
Fake News Reports!
John McCain GOBBLES Ron Jeremy's Goblin!
Swears him to secrecy!
"Wouldn't you rather have one of the Bunny Ranch's prostitutes?" the geriatric porn star offers.
"Gimme dat goblin!" McCain insists.
Fake News Reports!
Zombie John McCain EATS The Newly Dead Dennis Hoff!
"I'm having a ball," he says.
"That's because you're eating too fast," Ron Jeremy points out.
Fake News Reports!
In The Vile John McCain's Most Evil Act Yet...
Johnny "Wet-Start" Leaves The Bunny Ranch WITHOUT PAYING!
Fake News Reports!
John McCain CONFESSES To Evil Plan Of Bringing The Dead Back To Life!
"By 'the dead,' I'm talking about my penis."
Fake News Reports!
Back From The Dead, John McCain Spotted Drinking The Blood Of Republican Babies!
People are afraid of clowns, but what are clowns afraid of?
John McCain!
Is there something hiding in your closet?
Of course there is...
John McCain!
You know that feeling you get that someone is watching you?
That someone is John McCain!
John McCain has a good head on his shoulders...
...and another one in his refrigerator.
John McCain!
That last scream you hear will be your own!
John McCain!
If you don't wake up screaming, you won't wake up at all!
John McCain!
Back From The DEAD...
...with a few days TO KILL!
If John McCain doesn't scare you...'re already dead.
It's not fear that tears you apart...'s John McCain!
  American Chimpanzee

Tuesday, October 30, 2018

The Raven (edited for time)

Back in the day, writers used to be paid by the word, that’s why our classics are so looong. And, in addition to that, what else was there to do? You could spend six hours enjoying an opera, and not feel it’s gone on five hours too long, much like the fans at a baseball game.
     You can’t tell me Edgar Allan Poe’s classic poem The Raven doesn’t ramble far longer than it should. I don’t know what seems longer, reading The Raven or suffering through one of my mother-in-law’s visits.
     At any rate, that’s why I rewrote it for today’s audience.
     An audience whose time and attention span is limited.
The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary,
My eyes bloodshot, my vision bleary,
Something knock-knock-knocked at my chamber door.

Feeling, I, a wee bit drunky,
Hadn’t bathed, smelling funky,
So whomever was there I decided to ignore.

Yet there it waited, a stately raven,
An ebony bird in search of haven,
Thus it continued knocking, and then knocked some more.

“Get out!” I yelled, feeling pissy.

“I don’t care if you’re a male or missy,
Please exit thou from my chamber door!”

Yet, like an ex, it wouldn’t leave,
Thereupon causing me to lust and grieve
For my hot 13-year-old cousin named Lenore.

And so my sobriety I am quitting
As the Raven, never flitting,
Still is sitting, still is sitting.
I shall be sober... nevermore.

American Chimpanzee