Sunday, July 31, 2016

Dizneyland: For FREE!

Dizneyland

(The name of the theme park has been changed to protect the innocent.)
 
     I love Dizneyland.
     I go every chance I get
     My wife and kids, however, have long-since stopped going with me.
     "If you're going to let a little thing like embarrassment stop you," I'd tell them, "you'll never do anything."
     But when they did go with me, we'd get in free. How? you ask. Well, like this: there's ALWAYS a long line at the ticket booth where you pay your entrance fee. While standing in that slow-moving line, I'd complain, loud enough for everybody around me to hear, "I'm hot. Are you hot?" and then, "I don't feel so good," and then, "I hope I'm not contagious."
     After standing in the line for a reasonable length of time, I'd let myself fall to the hard concrete ground, pretending to have passed out. It's easy, you just let your legs go out from underneath you. It's a trick I learned that kept me out of the Army back when there was a draft. Rolling your eyes back so that only the whites can be seen is also a nice touch.
     Immediately, the Dizney medics would come and take me to their infirmary, also bringing my family along, assuring them that I would be all right. Once there, I'd wait for the nurse to leave the room, scoop up my family, and rush out the door before she or he'd come back.
     "I'm better now," I'd tell my worried kids, while my wife would roll her eyes knowingly.
     "How come you always get sick at Dizneyland?" one of my kids once wanted to know. that put her down a couple of rungs on the ladder of which of my kids I love the most.
     The nice thing about making our escape is we'd have to travel down the same passageway the Dizney characters enter and exit through, so my children would have a nice time meeting and greeting them without the usual crowds the common folk have to contend with..
     On the rare occasion the nurse doesn't leave the infirmary, I'd just get up, tell him or her that "I'm better now," and just leave. What could they do? Chase after me? No, since there was always other sick people there, they wouldn't leave their post.
     "But wouldn't they give their security force a description of you" some of you might wonder, to which I reply, "Quit wondering so much," but, since you must know, I would always wear a bright red shirt at the beginning of my Dizney adventure, then quickly discard it as I made my escape. Underneath the red shirt I would wear a subtle blue shirt. While the Dizney security force would be looking for a devilishly handsome man in a bright crimson shirt, I'd be happily riding their rides.
     "What about your wife and children?" you might also wonder. "Wouldn't they recognize them?"
     Hmm... you sure do wonder a lot, my friend. You wouldn't happen to work for Dizneyland, would you?
     To answer you question, no.
     No one ever notices the wife and kids.
     Once inside the slap-dap-happiest place on earth, my family and I were free to roam the park without that broke feeling parents usually have. Gone are the days when they used to give you a book of tickets to ride the rides with. With the "E" ticket you would be able to ride the premium rides, like The House of the Rising Sun in the New Orleans section of Adventurousland. Gone also are the wrist bands or flourescent hand-stamps that glowed under a blue light. Today, once inside the park, you can ride any ride you wish as many times as you like. The main ride being the Waiting In Line ride which, unlike the other rides which lasts only minutes, lasts hours.
     I try to avoid waiting in line if I can help it, and usually I can. The way I do it is, in a pinch I don't mind "borrowing" an unattended go-cart Dizneyland provides for the elderly and the handicapped, or, as I like to call them, the handicapped. If the user is on the ride, then how much does he or she really need that go-cart, if you follow my logic.
     Now, I know you're asking yourself if I'd be low enough to steal someone's wheelchair. Of course not. Wheelchairs involve too much work. Unless they're motorized.
     Dizneyland has a great team of maintenance workers constantly and efficiently cleaning up. You know what's good about maintenance workers? Having them mean I can drop or leave my trash wherever and whenever I want, and I can rest assured that it will be immediately picked up and not spoil my day there.
     Empty strollers also make a convenient place to throw your trash. Sadly, selfish parents who don't care about the environment might not appreciate your thoughtfulness, so be careful. Also be careful not to throw your drink cup. You might want something to drink later.
     Another way to get rid of your trash is just to hand it to someone else. As a student of human behavior, I've noticed that if you hand someone something, they'll usually take it. The trick is, you have to stick and movie.
     The last time I was there, the LGBT were there for Rainbow Weekend. Or maybe it was a law enforcement convention. I've noticed the members of both groups all seem to have the same look.
     When you're hungry, find a baby who is eating something and is being held backward over their parent's shoulder. If you look pleadingly at them and hold out your hand beggar-esque, they'll usually hand you what's left of their hamburger.
     You can also go to one of the resort hotels, like the Grand Californication, and you can order anything you want, as long as you give them a room number. They never ask, "Are you staying here?" They ask, "And what room shall I charge this to?"
     "Why, room 1408," I tell them, which happens to be one of my favorite Stephen King short stories. If they'd only ask me a different question, I might give them a different answer. Maybe even an honest one.
     "Are you staying here?"
     "No, I'm not."
     I don't see it as doing something wrong, I see it as giving a departing family a final Dizney adventure when they try to check out.
     The best time to eat from street carts at Dizneyland is when they're all packed up and moving away from you on their way back to restock. Walk behind them, and it's like an all-you-can-eat-while-you-walk buffet.
     And, if all else fails, pull the old Slip & Fall at any one of their wonderful restaurants. One of my favorites is the House of Blues, because while I'm slipping and falling, I'm also listening to some good music.
     Works every time.
     And how did I get away with it?
     I stuck and I moved.
 
 
American Chimpanzee
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
@JimDuchene
written for, but not featured in DesertExposure.com

Saturday, July 23, 2016

The Wit & Wisdom of Donald Trump

What's this obsession Donald Trump has with Ted Cruz?
     The New York businessman and reality show star no sooner won the Republican nomination for president than, instead of bringing his party together and solidifying his base, he went off on another rant about Ted Cruz, while his vice-presidential running mate, Indiana Governor Mike Pence, stood next to him with a look on his face like the ones the passengers on the Titanic must have had.
     To find some insight to his obsession., I needed to look no further than his latest book, The Wit & Wisdom of Donald Trump.
     I read it, so you wouldn't have to.
 
Winning isn't everything. It's the only thing.
That, and crushing Ted Cruz.
 
It ain't over 'til it's over.
Or until Ted Cruz endorses me.
 
All men are created equal.
Except Ted Cruz.
 
Thou shalt not kill.
Ted Cruz being the only exception.
 
Win one for the Gipper.
'Cause he hates Ted Cruz, too.
 
Hmm, I wonder what Ted Cruz is doing right now.
 
To the victor belongs the spoils.
You know who's spoiled? Ted Cruz. Or maybe he just smells that way.
 
God must love the poor, 'cause he made so many of them.
He made Ted Cruz, too. Stupid God.
   
I must get out of these wet clothes and into a dry martini.
Then I'll be ready for a night of stalking Ted Cruz.
 
'Tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved before.
You know who I don't love? Ted Cruz.
 
When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.
Then poison it and serve it to Ted Cruz.

Hey, you! Turn around! Oh, sorry... for a minute, I thought you were Ted Cruz.
 
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
Unless it's Ted Cruz.
 
It ain't over until the fat lady sings.
Hmm, that fat lady looks an awful lot like Ted Cruz.
 
'Tis a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done before. 'Tis a far better place I go than I have ever been.
Wow! Did I really say that? 'Cause what I was really thinking about was Ted Cruz
 
Don't shit where you eat.
Shit where Ted Cruz eats.
 
An apple a day keeps the doctor away.
But why doesn't it keep Ted Cruz away?
 
Where are you, Ted? I know you're here somewhere.
 
Last night, I shot an elephant in my pajamas.
Oh, how I wish it were Ted Cruz.
 
We are our own worst enemy.
Unless you count Ted Cruz.
  
I think, therefore I am...
...thinking of Ted Cruz.
 
I have not yet begun to fight.
Because I'm still worried if Ted Cruz will endorse me or not.
 
Nice guys finish last.
Does that mean Ted Cruz is a nice guy? I hope not.
 
Knock, knock!
"Who's there?"
"Ted Cruz."
"Ted Cruz who?"
"Nothing, I was just thinking about Ted Cruz."
 
Don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes.
Unless it's Ted Cruz.
 
We have met the enemy, and he is us.
By "us," I mean Ted Cruz.
 
Prosperity is just around the corner.
So is Ted Cruz.
 
Can't we all just get along?
With everybody but Ted Cruz, that is.
 
You can fool all of the people some of the time, and some of the people all of the time, but you can't fool all of the people all of the time.
Oh, why does Ted Cruz torment me so?
 
AHHHHHHHHHHH! CRUUUUUUUUUUZ!
    
Am I a man who dreamt I was a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming that I'm a man?
No, I'm a man. A man who hates Ted Cruz.
 
Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.
But enough about Ted Cruz's wife.
 
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
You know who doesn't smell sweet? Ted Cruz. And I'm not just saying that because he's Mexican or anything. You know who love me? The Mexicans. And they're going to pay for that bridge I'm building. What do you mean he's a Cuban? You mean, like Castro? No way, I know what I'm talking about. Wait a minute, what am I talking about? Oh, yeah... Ted Cruz.
 
I never met a man I didn't like.
Except Ted Cruz.
    
 
  American Chimpanzee
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
@JimDuchene
 


Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Fifty Shades of George Bush (Lucky #13)

The Turkey? My guess is she's an intern from the previous administration.
 
 
American Chimpanzee
 JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
@JimDuchene
 


Saturday, July 16, 2016

Hillary's Emails

I don't know about you, but I'm tired of all this Clinton Email Scandal nonsense.
     Now, after all the brouhaha is over with, the question I have, the REAL question (the only one that matters), is: Who's got the time to send off over 50,000 emails? I thought Secretary of States were supposed to busy. Sadly, what the American people found out, they're busy the way teenage girls are busy when they're bullying each other over the internet.
     Personally, I like Hillary Clinton. I don't care what anybody says, that 666 on her scalp is just an unfortunate birthmark, and if she says she didn't do anything illegal, immoral, or improper, then I believe her. It's like when I served as a juror in the notorious OJ Simpson trial, all of the eleven other jurors were dead-set on finding him guilty of the vicious murders of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman, but I told them, "You forget one thing, people... he SAYS he's innocent, and that's good enough for me." The rest, as they say, is history.
     Going back to the emails, do the math, my friends.
     Do the math.
     If each email took one minute to send, and, assuming, one minute to receive a response, at fifty thousand emails that translates to 100,000 minutes, divided by 60 and that's ONE THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED SIXTY-SEVEN HOURS that the Democratic presidential candidate spent in front of her computer while she was supposed to be busy saving the world. And that doesn't even include the time she spent watching Miley Cyrus videos.
     I know FBI Director James Comey created a stir when he recommended to our Attorney General Loretta Lynch to essentially "let sleeping dogs lie," but, despite the critical accusations political pundits like Rush Limbo and Bill O'Really have spewed, James Comey and Loretta Lynch are the best two law enforcement officers money and the Clintons can buy, and that's why I couldn't help myself, I just had to find out how the once and future president had the time to send off all those emails.
     As it turns out, Hillary brilliantly developed a sort of personal shorthand. She doesn't waste time with things like sentences and punctuation. Instead, she power-punches you with a thought, a word, an image.
     I know you don't know what I'm taking about, that's why I'm supplying you with a brief example of a typical Hillary Clinton exchange.
     And stop bothering me about that money I owe you.
 
Other Person: Hil?
Hillary Clinton: yeah?
O.P.: 'Sup?
H.C.: nothing
Chesea?
good
Bill?
who?
LOL
;-)
Mil?
two?
One.
:-(
'K?
no
Please?
NO!
Okay, two.
sorry
What?
now five
Five?
yes, five
Three.
five
3.5
KMA
Four.
Five!
...
'bye
'k
'K?
'K.
@5?
Done.
:-)
OMT
what?
Benghazi.
Ben who?
Exactly.
 
 
American Chimpanzee
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
@JimDuchene
   

Monday, July 4, 2016

Obama! In Prison!

When Obama calls, I jump.
     It's the least I can do for the man who once saved my life in 'Nam.
     "Jim, I'll be frank," he told me that day in early July, 2015.
     "Okay, Frank."
     "I need a bodyguard."
     I looked at his Secret Service detail standing nearby. Even behind their dark sunglasses I could tell they were looking everywhere but at me. I judge a man by whether he can look me in the eye or not. Also, by how many kicks to the head it would take to kill him.
     "It's not what you think," Obama said, quickly.
     I've usually found that when someone tells me it's not what I think, it's exactly what I think.
     "I have 110% faith in my Secret Service," he continued, using a code we developed in 'Nam. There's no such thing as 110%, you see. "I'm scheduled to visit a federal prison. Now, if I was visiting a female penitentiary, I'd have no doubt they'd perform magnificently. Certain South American prostitutes will tell you how thorough they are performing body cavity searches, but in a men's prison, they might, oh, lose interest. Plus, let's face it, secret service agents aren't what you call  street smart. They've learned to fight in a gym, not in the violent streets of Chicago or the jungles of Viet Nam."
     Leave it to Obama to turn a simple request into a speech.
     "How many of you have killed a man?" he said to his detail, throwing the question out there.
     Not one of them raised their hand.
     "You don't need to ask, B.O.," I told him, purposely using the nickname he used to go by when we were both members of the elite FERRET Force Five. It bonded us. "If you need me, I'm there."
     I offered him my hand. He took it, looking me straight in the eye.
     And that's how I found myself in El Reno Federal Correction Institution in Oklahoma with the Commander in Chief. In another lifetime, the prisoners I saw would have instead been my comrade in arms, but, without a draft, their only option was a life of crime in the poverty-stricken ghettos they were born in. To a man, the prisoners all looked at me with burning stares and mad dog glares. I smiled to myself. These guys would require a lot of kicks to the head. Maybe more than I had.
     "And what are you in for, my friend?" Obama asked one prisoner who was lifting weights. This prisoner looked like he came in as Clark Kent, but was determined to leave as Superman.
     "Nothing, your honor," he answered.
     "You don't have to call me 'your honor,' son," Obama told him. "'Mr. President' will do just fine."
     "They convicted me of beating a man to death with my shoe, but I didn't do it. Heck, it wasn't even my shoe."
     The president looked at him in surprise.
     "Are you telling me you're innocent and they still put you in prison?"
     "That's right, your honor. Honest."
     Obama turned angrily to the head of his secret service detail.
     "Johnson, I want you to get this man's name. No innocent man will be illegally incarcerated as long as I'm president."
     Just then, Obama saw a group of men kneeling on their prayer rugs, praying in the direction of Mecca. He turned to Johnson.
     "Are those men Muslim?" he asked.
     "Yes, Mr. President," Johnson answered.
     "I want them released just on general principle."
     He turned to another prisoner.
     "What are you in here for?"
     "They said I killed my wife."
     "And you didn't?"
     "No."
     "Who did?"
     "Columbian drug dealers, sir."
     "Your wife was Columbian?"
     "No."
     "On drugs?"
     "No."
     "Then why would Columbian drug dealers kill her?"
     "That's what makes it such a mystery!"
     Obama turned to a third.
     "How about you, sir?" he asked. "Are you innocent, too?"
     "Yes, sir," the prisoner said, putting away his shiv. "We're all innocent."
     "What?" Obama sputtered. "All of you?"
    All the prisoners within earshot nodded gravely.
     "Well," the president said, " that is unacceptable. Innocent men will not be wrongly imprisoned under the Obama administration, I can guarantee you that."
     He stood up on a bench, much like he used to do in his neighborhood organizing days, and got the attention of all the prisoners.
     "Is there anyone here," his voice rang out like a bullhorn, "who is guilty?"
     No one answered.
     "Johnson," Obama called out. "Get their names."
     "All of them?"
     "All of them!"
     "There's one, Mr. President," I said, reaching up to touch Obama's elbow to get his attention.
     "One what?" he asked, still visibly shaken up.
     "One hand," I pointed out. "Up, in the back."
     He stepped off the bench and walked over to the lone prisoner with his hand raised.
     "You, sir," Obama said. "You're guilty?"
     "Yes, your majesty," the old man told him.
     "You don't have to call me 'your majesty,'" Obama told him kindly. "'Your honor' will do just fine."
     Obama looked at him.
     "So... you're guilty?"" he asked again.
     "Yes."
     "And you don't want to be released?"
     "No."
     Obama looked at me, and then back at the prisoner.
     "Why?" he asked.
     "Because," the man said. "I have it pretty good here. when I wake up in the morning, they feed me. I watch TV all day, only stopping for lunch and dinner. I nap occasionally, and my medical needs are taken care of. I'm happy here. On the outside, I'd have to get a job, work, pay bills. Here, the government takes care of all that."
     Obama was touched. He put a hand on the old prisoner's shoulder.
     "I promise you this, my friend," Obama told him, "I'll do everything in my power to make sure that one day, the government will take care of the needs of all Americans, illegal or otherwise. All these things you receive in prison will one day be available to you on the outside. For you. For your children. But not for your children's children, because by that time I hope to have mandatory abortions. To each, according to their need. From each, according to the size of their paycheck. No, make that: From each, according to their inability to keep the government out of their wallet."
     "Thank you, Mr. President."
     "'Your majesty' will do just fine."
 
   
American Chimpanzee
jimduchene.blogpsot.com
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
@JimDuchene