Monday, October 30, 2017

Fifty Shades of Masquerade Balls

Holy crap!
     I make it to bed just in time.

     I can hear Christian letting himself in through our front door. I look at my Inner Goodness. She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand in the international sign of “Whew!”
     "Whew!" indeed.
     Hard to believe it was just a few hours ago that my beloved husband and I were getting ready for a masquerade ball given by our old friend Prince Prospero of Westeros. Christian was going as the Red Death from Edgar Allan Poe’s magnificent short story Masque of the Red Death.

     "A fiendishly handsome Red Death," he told me.
     Myself, I decided to go as a sexy Winnie the Pooh with my Christopher Robins hanging out. To make a long story short, I won't tell you how Pooh’s honey pot got stuck on my head. Let's just say that there wasn't any real honey on the inside.
     After much effort, Christian was finally able to pop that darn thing off my head like the cork on a bottle of very expensive champagne, the kind you can only buy at Walmart. Let me tell you, after such an ordeal, I was no longer in the mood to attend any masquerade balls. Not to mention that my costume was ruined. There were two huge footprints on Pooh's shoulders. They got there when Christian climbed up on me so he'd have better leverage to jerk the honey pot upward.
     "Newton's first law of physics," Christian explained. "A body at rest tends to stay at rest, and a body in motion tends to stay in motion, until another body, hopefully one in her teens, decides to wake you up with an apple and a morning quickie at a fair price."
     So, I stayed at home with nothing to console me but a bad headache, and Christian went to the ball by himself. He offered to stay and keep me company, but I insisted he enjoy himself instead.
     "Are you sure, dear?"
     As time passed, my head felt better, so I decided to dress and go to the ball, after all. I put on the costume of Christian's favorite Dizney Princess... Sin-derella! I put it on sometimes just before we, well, you know.
     I drove myself to Prospero's castle and waltzed into the soiree like a hungry tigress searching for prey, secure in the knowledge that no one there could recognize who I was. I was safe in the shroud of my anonymity.
     "Hi, Ana."
     "Hi, Harvey."
     That was when I saw my husband. He was talking to three gentleman and Donald Trump. The three gentlemen were Bill Clinton, George Bush, and Barack Obama. You know, the Larry, Curly, and Moe of American politics. Jimmy Carter would have been there as well, but there was a Matlock marathon on TV.
     As I slithered seductively past Christian, I whispered a naughty preposition into his ear.
     "Proposition," my Subconscious corrected me.
     No, I'm sure it was a preposition.
     Christian followed me like a hungry puppy lusting after a bone into an empty room down the hallway and we forever changed the expression on Prospero's poor cat. Maybe it was the festivities of the evening or the  costumes we wore, but Christian was especially voracious.
     Once done, I snuck off through the merriment like a decadent Cinderella and made my way home, happy with myself and wondering what Christian thought of the whole naughtiness. I chuckled at my lustful whimsy and the uninhibited seduction of... of...
     Hey, wait a minute!
     Christian thought I was home.
     He didn't know that enchanting seductress was me.
     "Oh, boy, is he going to get it when he gets home," I thought to myself, shaking my fist threateningly in front of my face.
     Which brings us back to the present.
     My present, not yours.
     I pretend to be roused from my slumber, yawning and rubbing my eyes, as Christian walks into our room, looking like a man who has something to hide.
     "How was the masked ball, dear?" I ask, feigning innocence.
     “Without you, my love, I wasn’t in the mood for such debauchery—I mean revelry—and gave my costume to my brother Elliot. He told me later that he had a wild time. There was one girl in particular...”

     Christian pauses, choosing his words carefully.
     "He called her 'Cinderlicious.'"
     “Humma, humma, humma,” I sputter.
     “Anyway, I went to a midnight screening of Eyes Wide Shut,” he continues. “I slept like a baby.”

     He changes into his silk pajamas, the ones with “Hot Stuff” embroidered in flames on the tushy part, and crawls into bed with me. I lay there, stiff as a board, but not in the I'm-in-the-mood-for-fun kind of way, completely mortified.
     Oh, my goobers!

     That was Elliot?
     And we... we...
     I can feel the warmth of Christian's body as he moves toward me and kisses me seductively on my lips.
     “Just kidding,” he whispers, his head still under the blanket. “It was me.”

American Chimpanzee

Sunday, October 29, 2017

I'm Not Harvey Weinstein

I'd like to thank Harvey Weinstein, because, next to him, I'm looking like a prince.
     Just yesterday I called in to where I work and asked for the day off. When my boss told me to give him"one good reason I should give you the day off," I said, "Um... I'm not Harvey Weinstein?"
     He thought about that.
     "No, I guess you're not," he replied. "Okay, take the day off."
     "With pay?"
     "With pay."
     Wow, what a break!
     I wondered what else not being Harvey Weinstein would score for me, so I walked into a nearby bank, and asked for some cold, hard cash.
     "Sir," the vice-president informed me, "we're not in the business of just handing out money to anyone who comes in off the street and asks for it."
     "But you don't understand," I told him, "I'm not Harvey Weinstein."
     "Well," he said, "since you put it that way."
     He handed me a big, white bag with a dollar sign printed on the side of it. I felt like that Mr. Moneybags character from the board game Monopoly.
     "Here," he insisted, "take as much as you want."
     "Gee, thanks."
     I took ALL of it.
    That was so cool.
     It was late afternoon now, and I was getting pretty hungry, so I stopped at El Paso's world famous Chico's Tacos and ordered two double-orders of rolled tacos (with extra cheese), a cheeseburger (with extra cheese), a side of cheesy fries (hold the cheese), and, of course, a diet soda because I'm watching my weight. Before the cashier could ring it all up, I informed her, "You probably haven't notice, but I'm not Harvey Weinstein."
     It worked.
     Who says there's no such thing as a free lunch?
     This not being Harvey Weinstein is a great scam.
     When I got home, I was feeling pretty frisky.
     "Hi, sweetie," I told my wife, wrapping my arms around her waist and kissing the side of her neck. "You look very beautiful tonight."
     "I've got a headache," she said, flatly.
     "But I'm not Harvey Weinstein!"
     "And don't you forget it!" she said, slapping me upside the head.
     Oh, well... it was worth a shot.
American Chimpanzee

Sunday, October 22, 2017

The Week In Scandalous Tweets!

When I told my doctor I owed him my life, he said, "I prefer cash."
The way people see you... probably the way you are.
RIP Playboy Founder Hugh Hefner
Heaven: Here are your 72 virgins.
Hugh Hefner: So few?
I'm not saying Hugh Hefner was old, but he published his first issue of Playboy ON A ROCK!
When you die, what if going toward the light is a trick?
North Korea, your people are starving!
Don't you know how much food the cost of ONE nuke would buy?
"Enough for lunch?" the well-fed Kim Jong-un asks.
Bon Jovi!
Nominated For Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame!
How rock & roll can he be if he's photographed drinking champagne with Hillary Clinton?
How many millions of dollars in tax revenue did the U.S. government lose by putting Tommy Chong in jail for selling a bong?
People criticized Tim Tebow for taking a knee to honor his God, but support the athletes who take a knee to dishonor their National Anthem.
Why hold a grudge when you can get even instead?
People screamed "as the flames barreled down on us," says a California fire witness.
Why didn't you leave?
"What? And give up show business?"
This Just In!
Aid STILL not getting to Puerto Rico!
"We're too busy complaining about President Trump," admits San Juan Mayor Cruz.
They say animals can predict the weather. Must be true. Before the last hurricane, my dog grabbed the keys to my car and drove to Arizona.
As the Harvey Weinstein scandal continues to grow, the question becomes: "Who in Hollywood knew and kept silent?"
If red meat gives you cancer, then why don't cows get cancer?
My ex spends all her time in the garden of our old house.
It was the cheapest place I could find to bury her.
All I am to my cat is a warm place to sleep.
  This Just In!
SNL's Lorne Michaels Chooses NOT To Mention Harvey Weinstein!
"It's a New York scandal," he says, "and the rest of the country is stupid."
Why did NBC's SNL ignore the Harvey Weinstein scandal?
"Because Harvey's a Hollywood liberal who gives A LOT of money to Democrats."
Why did SNL ignore the Harvey Weinstein scandal?
Who else has committed such horrible acts?
"Who hasn't?" Lorne Michaels says with a smile.
I'm rethinking ObamaCare.
When I need an X-ray, they just send me to the airport.
This Just In!
Texas Rethinks Climate Change After Hurricane Harvey!
Because nothing like this has ever happened before.
I Blame Trump!
What for?
Does it really matter?
I've been thinking a lot about careers lately.
Mainly, how do I get out of having one?
I Blame Trump!
What for?
Isn't it enough that I blame him?
It's a long life...
...and then it isn't.
American Chimpanzee

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Fifty Shades of Harvey Weinstein

Confessions of a Potted Plant
Ho-hum... another day.
      It’s pretty boring being a potted plant. Nothing exciting ever happens.
      Hey, here comes my owner, Harvey Weinstein. He just bought me and gave me a home.
      He seems like a nice man.
      That’s a very pretty girl he’s with. I wonder why she’s crying?
      Oh, goodie! He’s walking over to me! He must be wanting to show me off to her. We potted plants are known for our calming abilities.
      Now he’s standing over me. Hmm, a bit too close. That's making me feel uncomfortable.
      Um, excuse me, Mr. Weinstein, can you take a step back and respect my personal space, please?
      What are you doing?
      Put that thing away!
      It’s not fair! It’s not fair!
      I feel so used.

American Chimpanzee

Sunday, October 15, 2017

A Final Word From The El Paso Times' Ex-Editor Robert Moore

  Image result for roger moore


Robert Moore
Ex-Editor of the El Paso Times
and Former Double-0 Agent

 Well, the Times (funny pun) has come.
     After much thought (and many drinks), the editorial staff has decided (been ordered) to change the look of this newspaper's (boring) appearance, and give it it's first (What?) major overhaul in over four presidential (Go Hillary!) elections (Vote DNC).  You'll see these changes take place over the course of the next few weeks (or whenever we get around to it), and we hope (pray) you'll enjoy (buy) our newspaper's new (gimmick) design.
     This redesign will also incorporate (as opposed to outcoporate) a new reporting feature I (Yay, me!) like to call "Subliminal Reporting," an idea I (want a raise) thought up while reading the fine print of the contract of my (newspaper editors are sexy) recent purchase of the Brooklyn (re-watch FX's two-season hit TV show, The) Bridge. It's like the news scroll you see  (but don't read) at the bottom of your TV screen during news reports, only (not )better.
     For our older (the only ones buying newspapers these days) readers, we're increasing the size (try putting on your glasses for a change, old man) of our type, and ("Speak up! I can't hear you!") repeating everything twice. This way they'll (subscribe) be assured to receive the best (as well as our usual content) in news reporting, and  (less news + filling up more space = a bigger bonus for USA Today executives) it will make our newspaper easier and more pleasurable (mmm... pleasure) to read.
     For our younger (Get a haircut, hippie!) readers, we'll  try to (keep our words limited to one or two syllables) include more entertainment news (that Justin Bieber's a jerk... allegedly) and (silly us) cartoons. 
     (Aw, who are we kidding? We're not actually doing anything for our younger (Benghazi. "Ben who?" Exactly.) readers, since they (don't buy newspapers) seem to prefer getting their (fake) news from (communist liberals) The Daily Show and (Curse you, internet!) alternate (Me? I prefer The Onion.) sources.)
     We've decided to keep the (unfunny) comic Doonesbury, but are moving it back to the comics page where it originally was (unread) for years. 
     Yes, our look is changing, but it is our (five-year) mission ("Space, the final frontier.") to continue to give you ("Luke, I am your father.") the best (or whatever's cheapest), most in-depth (mmm... depth) reporting available, while also providing an unbiased (Triple-A baseball rules!) summary of local (Go, Chihuahuas!) and national (Trump. Boo!) issues. We also hope to bring (sell) you the latest in (Sum Ting Wong) pop culture and (newspapers good) technological (internet bad) advances.
     I invite you (not really) to continue to (send money) keep in touch with me (please don't) and let me (bother USA Today instead) know what you think (or not) about our new look. You can send your emails (where they'll immediately be deleted) to bmoore@(pleasebuythe)ElPasoTimes(I'mbeggingyou).com. 
     Thank you for reading (and subscribing to) the El Paso Times.
(You can stop reading now.)

American Chimpanzee


Friday, October 13, 2017

The El Paso Times Robert Moore Roast!

  Image result for roger moore
When I found out that our fearless leader and former Chippendale dancer, Robert "Call Me MISTER!" Moore, announced he was leaving the newspaper business in general and the El Paso Times in particular, I must admit I was a bit miffed. You see, I found out about it like the rest of the rubes at the carny.
     How could he be leaving so soon?
     Why, it seems like only yesterday he was brought up on those indecency charges.
     And how could he be leaving without letting me know? I thought we were friends. Maybe even more than friends, especially after that drunken weekend we spent at John Travolta's beach house celebrating Tom Cruise's birthday, where... well, let's just say that you're not allowed to ask and I don't have to tell. Though I will say this: if Richard Gere ever wants to show you his disappearing gerbil trick, just say no.
     So I went to Bob's favorite spot in the city, where he enjoys collecting empty aluminum cans as a hobby.
     ("It relaxes me.")
     Sure enough, there he was.
     Collecting cans, and putting little rocks inside of them.
     "Did I ever tell you that I came from Colorado Springs?" he asked me.
     "Yeah, but only fourteen times. Tell me again."
     "It used to get so cold in Colorado my parents would wet my lips and stick me to the town's flagpole.  It saved them a fortune on babysitting fees."
     "Your parents were poor?"
     "No, just cheap."
     One thing about Bob, it doesn't take much to get him yammering about himself. Getting him to stop, well, that's another matter. He told me that he wanted to be in the newspaper biz ever since he picked up his first pencil. Later, after jabbing his little sister with that same pencil, he considered a career as an interrogator for the CIA.
     In grade school, while the other boys were playing baseball, football, and basketball, he was busy being made fun of for the way he played baseball, football, and basketball.
     "We're not laughing at you," his coach explained. "We're laughing with you."
     "Really?" Little Robert asked, hopefully.
     "Nah, we were laughing at you."
     In high school, his and his brother's hearts were broken when their dates to the prom wouldn't answer the door.
     "We're not home!" yelled one.
     "We're doing our hair!" cried the other.
     In retrospect, Bob and his brother should have cancelled the romantic horse-drawn carriage ride to the dance. Maybe that way they would have avoided all those cruel rumors.
     His college years were a definite improvement. His face--which earned him the affectionate nick-name of "Pizza Pie" from his friend, the janitor--finally cleared up. He also decided to join a sorority. He thought it would increase his chances for getting a date. It didn't, and thus was born the expression: "You couldn't get a date in a woman's prison with a fist full of pardons."
     After college, the adult Robert Moore realized his dream in 2005 and became a reporter for the Fort Collins Coloradoan. He handily met their high standard of "anyone who will work for free."
     His years in the newspaper business had its share of ups and downs. Victories and defeats. Abbotts and Costellos.
     I met him when he came to work for the El Paso Times in March of 1986.
     ("You missed a spot.")
     He had to go back in time to accept the job, but felt that was a small price to pay for the opportunity.
     I recently asked Sergio H. Salinas, El Paso Times President and Publisher, what he saw in Mr. Moore. He graciously answered from beyond the grave: "I saw in Bob a willingness to work for free."
     It's going to be sad to see Robert Moore, our beloved editor, go, but we all respect his decision and desire to build a second career.
     "So, what are you going to do now?" I asked him.
     He lifted his plastic Wal-Mart bag, full of empty beer and soda cans, and bounced it happily up and down.
     "You're looking at it!"
American Chimpanzee