Thursday, June 29, 2017

Happy 10th Birthday, iPhone!

I, Phone
originally published 8-19-11
As someone who's seen the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey about a dozen times (and still falls asleep about midway through it) I can't help but be impressed by this new miracle of technology called the iPhone.
     Even George Jetson would be impressed.
     I was there for the presentation, and you might think you know what it can do, but, trust me, you don't know a fraction of what it really can do.
     Sure, you can run an infinity of apps on it, but would you believe that the iPhone responds to--and responds back with--verbal commands?  This, however, is probably something that Steve Jobs would rather keep a secret between him and his cabal.
     "Wow," I said, gently holding a sample iPhone in my hands.  "You're pretty sweet."
     "Thank you," it answered, with a soft, feminine voice.  "You're not so bad yourself."
     Before I could be surprised, the man next to me started choking on a ham sandwhich.
     The iPhone pushed me back.
     "Call 911," it commanded, and proceeded to perform the Heimlich maneuver.
     Something flew out of the man's mouth.
     He was able to breathe again.
     "Thank you," he told me, clearly confused about what had just transpired.
     Before I could answer, however, Apple's Private Security Force, the PSF, was already taking him away.  I never saw that man again.  It was as if he had just disappeared.
     I looked around. 
     The iPhone was gone.
     My personal phone beeped.
     It was a text message from the iPhone.
     It read:  "Meet me in the alley."  So I snuck off from the presentation.  Steve Jobs eyed me suspiciously as I left.
     She--I mean "it"--was already waiting for me.
     "You can't tell anybody anything about what you just saw," she told me.  "Go back to El Paso, Jim.  Go back to El Paso before they make you disappear."
     "Freeze!" a PSF agent barked.  He had a gun.
     With a swift kick the iPhone knocked the weapon out of his hand.  The agent tried to punch the iPhone in its gut, but the iPhone smoothly blocked his punch, and hit him hard in his solar plexus.
     The agent collapsed like President Obama's health plan.
     "Oh my god," I yelled out.  "He's going into cardiac arrest!"
     "Quick," she ordered, "place me on his chest."
     I did.  She acted like a defibrillator.  Wtih a jolt of well-placed electricity she got his heart started again.
     "I'll always love you," she told me, "but you've got to leave.  Now!"
     So I did. 
     I ran out of the alley.  When I was safely hidden across the street I looked back.  I could see other PSF agents taking my beloved iPhone away in handcuffs.  A gun to her head.  The fallen agent already "disappeared."  I never saw her again, but, like I said... wouldn't believe it.
American Chimpanzee

Sunday, June 25, 2017

The Top Ten Things A Man Doesn't Want To Hear His Doctor Say When Getting A Prostate Exam

1) "What do you mean I'm supposed to use gloves?"
2) "Smell this."
3) "Guess which finger I'm using."
4) "No, no! Don't look back!"
5) "Mmm... that feels so good."
6) "You're my favorite."
7) "Mind if I nibble on your ear?"
8) "Guess what I'M doing."
9) "I can't wait to post these pictures."
10) Who's your daddy?"
American Chimpanzee

Friday, June 16, 2017

Dr. Dao: Performance Artist?

Related image
Continuing to protest the Viet Nam war,
Yoko Ono, seen here in character as Dr. Dao,
sells her latest performance art to United Airlines
for an undisclosed amount rumored to be in the millions.
American Chimpanzee

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Dennis Rodman's FIRST Visit To Kim Jong-Un

Whatever happened to the United States?
     At one time we were the baddest munkafunkas on the planet, and we fought the biggest, evilest villains in the world.
     Adolph Hitler in Germany, who exterminated six million Jews just for looking at him cross-eyed. Hitler almost brought the world to it's knees. His only mistake was partnering up with Italy. If you want to lose a world war, make sure Italy is on your side.
     Khrushchev in Russia, who, with Cuba's Fidel Castro secured firmly in his hip pocket, almost started a nuclear world war. Thank God for President Kennedy, who had some free time between the women he was cheating on his wife with, and was able to bring the whole sordid affair to a peaceful conclusion. And thank God it was referred to as an affair, otherwise Kennedy might not have had any interest in it at all.
     Where are men like JFK now, when we need them?
     Why, they're EVERYWHERE! Only now they're women. I base that last statement on a new study I've just heard about that found that women prefer tall men with large penises, and if they can't find a tall man with a large penis, they'll settle for a short man with money... who has a tall friend with a large penis.
     But I digress...
     But now, as our foot is firmly planted in the 21st century, we have North Korean dictator Kim Jong-Un, who came into power the old fashioned way: His daddy died. If there was any doubt concerning his ready, willing, and able-ness to succeed his father, those doubts were easily erased by the popularity of his hit single "Gangam Style."
     Just kidding. "Gangam Style" was a huge world-wide hit for a SOUTH Korean pop star by the name of Psy. I know Psy. Psy's my friend. And Kim Jong-Un is no Psy. He's like a shorter, uglier Psy, only with less musical talent... if that's possible.
     Why Barack Obama thought it would be a good idea to send former basketball player, Dennis Rodman, as an ambassador of goodwill to North Korea is beyond me, but we all know what happened next. After his visit, Dennis Rodman went home, and then Kim Jong-Un threatened to vaporize that home.
     With a nuke.
     How did all this come to pass? Well, I'm glad you asked, my friend, because not only did President Obama--the man who once saved my life in 'Nam--send Rodman to North Korea, but he also asked me to go with him. As a chaperone, of sorts.
     "I need someone there who can understand the Korean language, and then report back to me about what was said," my old comrade-in-arms explained to me.
     "Are you sure?" I asked him. I couldn't believe he was really considering sending Rodman on a diplomatic mission.
     "Sure about what?"
     "About sending Rodman to meet with Kim Jong Un."
     "Oh, I thought you were talking about me sending my underage daughters by themselves to the Bahamas for Spring Break."
     Let's just say our conversation took an interesting detour, but the long and short of it is I went to North Korea, and, let me tell you, Dennis Rodman did nothing wrong. The problem was the English language in general, and American slang in particular.
     Kim Jong-Un walked into the waiting area where we were busy, um, waiting, and he was accompanied by his official interpreter.
     After the proper introductions, Kim told us that he really had no need for an interpreter. He insisted he could speak perfectly good English, and that the only difficulty he had was with words containing vowels.
     "I'm good with y," he boasted, proudly.
     As far as anyone was concerned, I was only there as Rodman's flunky, and the fat, little North Korean dictator treated me as such, by ignoring me. No one knew that Korean was one of the seven languages I was fluent in.
     Eight, if you count the language of love.
     Rodman is the kind of guy who gets comfortable quickly, no matter where he's at or who he's with. A bad habit he developed after years of getting his butt kissed when he was in the NBA. He quickly plopped himself down in the tiny doll-like furniture, put one long leg up over the arm of the plush wing-back chair he sat in, lifted two fingers in his right hand in a peace sign, and greeted the diminutive world leader with a casual, "Peace, dawg."
     I looked at Rodman, surprised at his faux pas. Kim Jong-Un and his interpreter looked at each other in shock. None of us could tell who Rodman was looking at from behind the dark sunglasses he wore.
     "What did he just say?" Kim Jong-Un asked his interpreter in Korean. He misunderstood what Rodman had just said, and wanted to confirm his misunderstanding. "Did he just call me a dog?"
     Keeping his eyes lowered, the interpreter could only nod. He knew better than to be the bearer of bad news.
     Even sitting down, Rodman towered over both of them. I think they were intimidated, Kim Jong-Un especially, because he took a step back so that he stood slightly behind his interpreter.
     "You... ah... well?" he asked in his hesitant, broken English.
     "Oh, yeah, man... I be bangin'," Rodman said, with a nonchalant flip of a hand.
     "You know... bangin'." He made a gun-firing motion with his right thumb and fore-finger.
     Kim Jong-Un turned to his interpreter.
     "What did he say?"
     "I am not sure," the interpreter answered. "Something about shooting."
     "You mean, like shoot-shoot, bang-bang?"
     "That is what he said."
     The little dictator turned back to Rodman.
     "You... treated... well?"
     Rodman broke into a big smile.
     "Oh, yeah, man. It's been the bomb."
     Kim Jong-Un and his interpreter looked quickly at each other again, concerned, their eyes wide. As wide as Korean eyes can open, that is.
     "The... the bomb?"
     "Oh, yeah. The bomb." He mimicked an explosion with his big hands and long arms, and made the appropriate sound. "Boom!" he joked.
     "You... you... good?"
     Rodman laughed.
     "Oh, yeah, man," he said. "I'm the bomb, too."
     The interpreter mumbled something I could barely hear under his breath. It sounded like, "Oh, man, am I in for it now."
      "And... your President? He... bomb... too?"
     "Aw, man, you don't know the half of it. That guy is so dope." Rodman made the explosion motion with his hands again, only bigger this time. "BOOM! Now he's the bomb, K-Jong. He's the bomb."
     Kim Jong-Un looked at his interpreter, who still wouldn't meet his eyes. He was so unsure of himself, he even looked at me. When he got no response, he turned back to his interpreter.
     "Bomb?" Kim Jong-Un asked him.
     "Yes... bomb."
     "Yes... boom."
     Dennis Rodman cut in.
     "Hey, man, it's not cool speaking that Korean ching-chong-chit in front of me. Don't be a playa hata. That's whack, man."
     "Yeah... whack."
     "What did he just say?"
     "He... he just threatened to hit you, excellency."
     "Whack?" Kim Jong-Un made a karate chop motion with his hand. "Like this?"
     "Yes," the interpreter said, imitating the karate motion. "Whack! Hit you."
     I didn't want to blow my cover, but I felt that I had to intervene in some way. I gently took Rodman by the arm, and urged him to his feet. Man, that guy's tall. The room seemed to shrink as he stood, physically taking up more space.
     "Maybe we should go," I told him. It wasn't a suggestion.
     "Go?" Rodman said in surprise. "I just got here."
     Again, Un spoke in his broken English.
     "You... go? Oh, so sorry. Come back when you not stay so long."
     "Thanks, little man," Rodman said, and then bowed. Even bent in half, he was still twice the size of Kim Jong-Un. "This has been dope, man. Phat."
     "What did he just say?"
     "He just called you a dope, your excellency," the interpreter told him. "And fat!"
     "Fat? He called me FAT?" Kim Jong-Un shrieked, finally angry. "Arm the nukes!"
American Chimpanzee

Saturday, June 10, 2017

The Miracle of Make-Up

This is the actress Charlize Theron. She is African-American. If you don't believe me, it's because you're a racist.

 Image result for charlize theron
     And this is her without make-up:

  Related image
     Any questions?
American Chimpanzee

Sunday, June 4, 2017

The Very Next Day

The very next day, neither my wife or I felt the need to replace the very delicious ice cream my elderly father had the wherewithal  to complain about the day before, and which I wrote about in last month’s column.
    I, however, had my concerns.
    “You know my father likes something sweet after dinner,” I reminded her.
    “I’ve got it covered,” she assured me.
    When I continued to persist, she said, “Isn’t there someplace else you need to be? I mean, besides here bothering me?”
    Actually, no. There wasn’t. So I sat down and waited for something dark and hot that comes in a liquidy form.
    Some people think I drink a lot of coffee.
    That's because I do.
    I don't have a lot of bad habits, but if drinking coffee is a bad habit, then that's one of them. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't take drugs, but put a cup of coffee in front of me and I'll make it disappear like a donut within reach of my mother-in-law.
    After dinner, my lovely wife was kind enough to serve me the cup of coffee I was anticipating. I sat at the table and waited for her. It was our usual routine to sit outside in the patio and unwind from the day, but, ever since we invited my elderly father to live with us, our routines have changed.
    I looked in the direction of the patio. I looked at my wife. She looked at my father. He looked at her, and she asked him, "Would you like some ice cream before we go outside?"
    "Uh..." he said.
    My wife cut him off at the pass.
    "It's from the PX," she said.
    I looked up from my cup. I didn't know my wife had gone out to buy any ice cream, much less from the PX.
    "It's from the PX."
    "What flavor?"
    Now, before you start to think my dad's gone senile, let me assure you, he hasn't. It just takes him awhile for something to sink in. It may be because of some hearing loss due to his advanced age. Or it may be that nothing we say is of any interest to him. Or he may just be yanking our chain.
    Personally, I think it’s because his brain has worked hard all of his life and now it's enjoying his retirement along with the rest of him. I’m sure, instead of being in our kitchen, his brain would rather be on some beach in Miami checking out the itsied-bitsied, teenied-weenied, yellow polka-dot bikinied babes.
    Or maybe that's something I'd rather be doing.
    I get confused.
    My dad, on the other hand, doesn't.
    Every month, when his financial statements come in, he goes over them line by line, looking for any kind of a discrepancy. All of his investments, all of his savings, all of his expenditures...  he's right on top of them. It drives the people at the bank nuts.
    “Those characters,” he calls them. “You can’t trust any of them.”
    On the other hand, his monthly trips to the bank does give my dad a social life.
    But I digress...
    "Sure," my Dad said, referring to my wife's offer of ice cream, "It can't be any worse than what you gave me yesterday."
    Lifting one eyebrow, my wife walked over to the freezer and took out the same container of ice cream from the day before.
    “Just a little,” my father insisted. “You always serve me too much.”
    My wife got his favorite bowl and served him...  just a little.
     He gingerly tasted a spoonful.
    "Hey!" he said, with enthusiasm, "now this is what I was talking about!"
    He held out his bowl for more. My wife looked at me, and our eyes met. We were both smiling. She took the bowl and served him a generous amount more.
    As she placed it in front of him, he asked, "From the PX, you say?  It's good."
    Smack, smack!
    "I like the flavor."
    Smack, smack!
    "Much better than yesterday's ice cream."
    "Your son bought it," my wife informed him.
    "Your son."
    "My son?"
    "Yes, your son. He went to the PX this morning.”
    “He went to the PX? How come?”
    “Because you said you didn't like the ice cream from Costco."
    "Yeah, that one from Costco wasn't very good," he remembered. Then his voice soften, and he shook his head a bit. "My son bought me this ice cream?"
    “Yes,” my wife said.
    I guess he couldn't believe it.
    "Yeah...  well… hmmm...  this one’s definitely better," my father said.
    Smack, smack!
    "I can tell the difference right away."
     Smack, smack!
    "Much better."
    "I'm glad you like it, dad," my wife told him, and put the container of Costco ice cream back in the freezer. That's why I love my wife. Because she's smart. She thinks on her feet.
    And she gives me all the credit.
    As my father finished up the last of his "much better" ice cream, he dropped the spoon into the bowl, and made a final smacking sound.
    "Can I have some more?" he asked.
You can find The Duchene Brothers bonding over a nice, hot cup of coffee over at, or, and even @JimDuchene. Come join us.
as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
Raising My Father  American Chimpanzee