ZUKI REACHES OUT…..dog shit breath stirs the pot

Dog ShittingGood Morning Perspicuous Messengers,

As I gazed out my window this morning the reality of the changing season became very clear.  Someone had written something on my windshield.  I couldn’t quite make it out from my vantage point so I donned my slippers, cinched up my robe, and walked outside.  Some smart ass had etched out the crude sentence ‘YOU SUCK’ in the frosted glass.  I thought about scraping the rude comment away but backed off.  This expression was offered by someone up pretty early and felt compelled to scribble their feelings at the risk of being seen.

I suspect whoever it was has some sort of ax to grind but didn’t have the brass to confront me directly.  It might have been a kid trying to be funny and I was only one of many recipients of the same message.   But after examining the other cars parked street-side I was saddened to discover I indeed was the only car targeted.  I can only think of one person that thinks I’m an asshole!  Yah Yah….Shut up I know there’s more; let’s stick to the storyline shall we?

Back inside I grabbed another cup of coffee and tried to imagine why this woman has it in for me.  The two or three of you reading this suppository may recall an earlier posting explaining how to get even with those pricks that allow their dogs to shit on your lawn.  About six months ago I kept seeing fresh piles of doggy doo just a few feet from the sidewalk on my lawn.  I never caught the culprit as I was still wrestling with the idea of getting up to face the day.  Thinking of how best to pay this asshole back I came up with a stroke of genius!

Taking a full cup of melted bacon grease I drenched the entire pile of excrement with pork grease and set my alarm clock for the crack of dawn.  I got up and quickly dressed positioning myself to witness the event.  Sure enough a woman came strolling up with a big Labrador sniffing out the perfect spot for his morning dump.  To my utter joy the dog made a bee-line for the aromatic pile of shit left the previous morning and in one inhaling gulp devoured the pile!  The woman was mortified!  I walked onto the front porch and demanded she allow her pooch to shit on her own lawn!  She unrepentantly flipped me the bird but I’ve never seen another unholy turd since.

In this age of email, facebook, and internet dating it’s easy to understand how someone can live literally 20 years a mere 15 feet away from a neighbor and not say two words to each other!  I marvel at how commonplace this is.  I left the crude message to dissolve and melt with the morning sun.  After all this could possibly be this persons attempt to reach out and actually communicate so I need to be sensitive to this.  I don’t know where this woman lives or how big her husband may be so there’s no way to scratch out a windshield note in response.  So I fashioned a note from a cardboard box flap and attached it to my radio antenna so she couldn’t miss it and said the following:


While I appreciate your efforts to keep your dog from defiling my lawn, but your puny efforts to insult me fell dramatically short.  When you say I suck, you leave me no idea as to what is to be sucked.  Your fragmented sentence has no context.  Suck air?  Suck smoke?  Is it possible for you to be specific?

Your Neighbor,


There are No Comments to this post.

ZUKI’s ROAD TO DAMASCUS……..pull my finger

Nixon pull fingerGood Morning Perforated Bowels,

I looked at her and let out a nervous laugh and said, “What?” “Go ahead Marzuki pull my finger” she insisted. “How did you know my Malaysian name?” I shot back. She smiled and said there were many things of this world I didn’t know or couldn’t explain.

Then things got real weird. “Did you have a vision recently?” she queried. My jaw nearly hit the floor. I’d hadn’t mentioned this to anyone yet here was this beautiful woman asking me to pull her finger, the very words uttered to me by the late Elizabeth Montgomery in the middle of my back swing! Her forefinger still extended towards me, she smiled and gave me that pouting look that women do so very well, and asked me once again to give her finger a tug. Given how this enigmatic message was delivered, I once again became nervous and fearful of complying with her wishes. I needed to take more control of this situation and asked her for her name stalling for time.

“Call me Sam” she said, and took another drink; her eyes never breaking contact with mine. “Well Sam, it’s a pleasure to meet you” and once again extended my hand to complete the formal introduction, and again she responded by poking my chest with her index finger repeating the refrain. This time though she leaned over and began munching on my ear, whispering how I’d be rewarded if I would simply grant her request. Rubbing my crotch with her other hand she again offered her finger to me.

She never blinked that I could recall, but it didn’t matter as I was quickly becoming aroused. The more provocative she became the weaker my resolve, and was actually entertaining the idea of granting her wish. “What’s the worst that can happen?” I thought, mesmerized by her long red fingernails. I’ve always had a weakness for long fingernails, especially when used to scratch my back and neck. My thoughts betrayed me. She lifted her hand from my crotch and began using her fingernails on my neck. I melted. Her eyes still fixed on mine; she knew it wouldn’t be long.

Pressing closer to me, her breasts flattened against my chest promising a night filled with unbridled lust! Every time I mentioned we should go back to my place, she’d lick her lips and ‘give me the finger’ to pull. I had a raging hard on and could feel the first signs of blue-balls lurking so lust finally overcame fear; I pulled her finger.

I was like having 250 volts coursing through you! I was convulsing with involuntary spasms. My eyes rolled back in their sockets so I was in another dream-like state that turned my surroundings into slow motion clearly seeing everything around me. Sam was laughing as I still gripped her finger unable to release it. She then lifted up one cheek of her gorgeous ass and farted thinking it hilarious! I had no control over anything let alone my bowels, and also became flatulent. Was I mistaken? Was I farting in two-part harmony with Sam’s squeezed out notes?

Still clinging to her finger the two of us were as one. I recognized the tune, but couldn’t name it. Both of us were now standing face to face with a continuing supply of gas and trumpeted out “Happy days are here again”, the old democratic political ditty. It seemed to go on for hours. Sam continued to laugh in mocking tones but eventually released me from her finger. She walked out of Blondie’s still laughing, leaving me at the bar with my sphincter in painful irritation.

I really hadn’t noticed the other patrons at the bar, and only now realized everyone was staring at me in awe. One by one, each began to clap in approval of what they’d just heard, and eventually built into a standing ovation. Nobody had ever heard such melodious sounds from this source before and God bless em they showed their appreciation. I thanked everyone and sat back down to finish my drink. I immediately realized I had another problem. I paid my tab and quickly got to my car. As soon as I shut the door, the problem fouled the air in the confined space of the car. My windows open, I made my way home and proceeded to burn my soiled clothes. Jeez.


There are 4 Comments to this post.

BAGWAN IS WELL TRAVELED…..hangs on for glory and a few crumbs

last_supper_mosaicGood Morning Disciples of Taradiddle,

The Bagged One has graciously condescended to address us regarding a topic very dear to his heart.  While name dropping is not unusual as most of us have had as David Letterman describes a “Brush with Greatness.”  However his list goes well beyond believable, into that dark place where many stories come from, but he has convinced me it’s true so enjoy:

The Bagwan says:

Celebrities come in all shapes and sizes. Some earned their fame by accomplishment, some are famous because of who they hang with and others are mysteriously famous just for being famous.

Because my travels took me to cities like New York and LA and because I was often afforded the luxury of flying first class, staying in nice hotels and wining and dining in the best spots I often spotted famous people. I didn’t seek them out, I just happened to notice them.

Whether it was relevant to the conversation or not, I might mention that I had sat next to Jack Nicholson on a plane or literally ran into Robert Redford at Beaver Creek. Zuki took offense at this calling it shameless name dropping. I don’t think it was “name dropping” per se, just a harmless bit of self-important reminiscing.

After a few years of this Zuki suggested that I make a list of all the celebrities I had encountered in my travels. I don’t know if he thought this would shut me up or he actually became intrigued by who was on the list. I have done this and the list now stands at 71 names which we should post sometime in the official Library of the Diatribe.

I think my entire list comes from the first category of celebrities who became famous because of personal accomplishment. In my dotage I have become fascinated with the other two categories: famous because of who you know and famous because you are famous. I don’t know if “fascinated” is the right word. Maybe I am more confused, amazed or just perplexed.

As a result of this new interest of mine, on my homepage I keep a box dedicated to the NY Post’s Page Six. It contains all the latest gossip, celebrity sightings and my favorite the Star Snaps of the day. In Star Snaps there will be 25 pictures taken by paparazzi on both coasts. These are candid photos of “celebrities” coming out of a restaurant, a gym or an AA meeting. If you are over 60 I will personally kiss your ass if you recognize more than 5 of these people on any given day. I assume most of you will get Paris Hilton, any Kardashian and a scowling Alec Baldwin. After that you’re going to have come up with a Shia LaBeouf, a Cara Delavingne or maybe even a Padma Lakshmi. If any of you name more than five I will meet you at the corner of Colfax and Broadway at high noon to present you with your winning smooch.

I was trying to think back in history if there are any examples of these faux celebrities. I came up with the 12 Apostles. Some of them went on to some measure of success on their own like Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John who did some writing. Peter ended up with a pretty good job and Judas was a pioneer in the area of motivational speaking. But the fact is that when Jesus was alive they were just famous for being hangers-on. Jesus was out there walking on water, feeding thousands with a few loaves and fishes, changing water into wine and these guys were getting the groupies.

Which reminds me of the old one about how you know that Jesus was Irish: he never married, never had a steady job, was always drinking with his buddies, lived with his parents till he was 30 and he thought his mother was a virgin and she thought he was the son of God.

Faith and begorrah!


There are 4 Comments to this post.

POLKA…POLKA…POLKA……………zuki takes a spin

Polka starGood Morning victims of Desiderium,

Due to circumstances beyond my control I had nothing fresh to post, so I grabbed a story from 2006 when I was still a traveling salesman.  I trust there’s a few of you that can relate, so please enjoy:

Good Morning Purveyors of Cultural Diversity,

First of all I’d like to apologize to the two or three of you that actually read this quick step for my lack of consistency. The trail has been arduous and wrought with peril. Like our first frontier journalists William Clark and Meriwether Lewis, “there are times when the events of the day prevented or highly discouraged putting pen to paper.” Such was the case of your humble documenter of “life’s rich pageant.” I shall attempt to accurately describe the episode and it’s dampening effect on my ability to record history.

I found myself attending a conference in Milwaukee and was not too surprised to find the ‘Polka Hall of Fame’ in nearby Hartford, WI as the city boasts of a strong Polish influence.  According to Wikipedia this lively dance of Bohemian folk origin requires a great deal of stamina and coordination. The polka (Czech for “Polish woman”) is characterized by three quick steps and a hop and is danced to music in 2/4, or duple time. It originated in the early 19th century and became popular in ballrooms across Europe and in North and South America. It has remained popular into the 21st century as both a folk dance and a ballroom dance.

I’m here to witness not only to its popularity, but its potential for injury or even death. The organizers of the convention thought it’d be fun to have a Polka Party with all the trimmings; including beer.

I’d had plenty to drink, but was astonished I was actually enjoying the “Kenosha Kickers” accordion and all, when things turned very ugly. I’m sure the organizers felt the nature of the dance was preventing many from participating which of course was accurate, so they announced the next dance to be ‘ladies choice.’ Many of the women dressed in their finest polka garb filtered through the crowd grabbing unsuspecting men then dragged them to the dance floor.

Yes, you may have already guessed; I was one of those unfortunate few that were subjected to this particular brand of humiliation.  I’m guessing Greta to be in her forties, 210 lbs, had an affable smile, but had overly large feet disproportionate to the rest of her body.

The first part of the song was deliberately slow allowing each couple to learn the steps at a reasonable pace. Not wanting to appear like a ‘stick in the mud’ to any potential customer, I went along with it even pasting a smile on my face. In due course the tempo quickened as Greta locked arms with me and began this trotting move while being side by side. I adapted quickly and followed her lead actually enjoying the frivolity and put gusto into my steps. Encouraged by my changed demeanor, Greta decided it was time to begin twirling with me.  Arms completely extended the faces in the room quickly blurred as if spinning on the ‘Mad Hatter’s Tea Cup ride. The ‘Kickers’ upped the ante and set the tempo to “ramming speed” so there was no turning back now.

Centrifugal force pressed the both of us to the maximum as I began to feel my grip on Greta’s wrist slip. Sensing our immanent release, Greta tried in vain to alter our pace by stepping across her body to plant her large foot in hopes of slowing us down. However, her planks for feet landed directly on the top of mine causing me to hyper-extend my knee catapulting me directly onto the accordion player sending the two of us sprawling across the platform taking out two microphones and a snare drum.

The crowd was divided into two groups; those that were concerned about my physical condition, and those who laughed so hard as to wet themselves. I had to hobble around for three days nursing several contusions.

It’s never easy doing windshield time.


There are No Comments to this post.


bad driverGood Morning Callow Hatchlings,

It has often been said by others, and I emphasize ‘others’ as I’ve no experience with this, but they say “I’d rather be lucky than good”.   I’ve sat up in bed countless nights wondering what it would be like to be lucky but always fall back in a stupor of thought. It’s hard to believe I’m the only one that loses his shirt after a gambling outing!  To hear others talk they broke even or wiped the house out!  I doubt if the Bellagio was built by those breaking even, but I’ve heard the wealthy define lucky as being “prepared when opportunity knocks.”

Yes I’d certainly subscribe to the above tenet if it weren’t for the fact I’ve been prepared most of my adult life with seemingly boundless opportunities only to see the rewards go to the undeserving or worse, the surprised.  I don’t want this to turn into a pity party (I deserve one though) as the two or three of you still reading this lotto ticket deserve something of substance.  But I felt it important to tell this story without affectation allowing zero room for misquotation.

I was fighting my way through traffic last night in hopes of making a committee meeting at Blondie’s.  It was an important curmudgeon ‘rules’ meeting to decide how many times we’re allowed to repeat the superfluous preface/suffix, “I’m just saying….” in a single conversation.  This issue has been hotly contested for months and I wasn’t going to let happy hour expire without throwing my two cents in!

Traffic was at such a pace walking would have been faster and time was running out.  Timing is all important because once happy hour expires the meeting nearly always breaks up and nobody has ever volunteered to keep minutes.  I’ve always been a proponent of minutes because it would go a long way in preventing the inevitable arguments concerning what was said or decided upon at previous meetings throwing the entire process into constant turmoil.

As I came upon a portion of the road that crowned allowing the driver a good view of a long downhill section and amazed to see an opening between two garbage trucks.  If I could get there it would save me having to wait two complete signal cycles to get through the intersection.  So I turned onto the right shoulder and hit the accelerator.  I was cautious at first feeling as though I was under a spotlight and would likely get nailed by the cops for this egregious offense, but quickly gathered speed.  The gap between trucks was still sufficient to execute the plan and had only 100 yards to cover.  It looked as though ole zuki was going to make the meeting after all!

In my world one must not only accept that shit happens, but one should always expect it as well, but I continue to fight this axiom and resist succumbing to its eventuality.  I suspect this is why I’ve become a cynical embittered old fart because I expect to win!  However, for the two or three of you still reading this piffle I again snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.

Just as I was about to take my new place in line some asshole in the left lane decided his position would improve by a car length by taking my spot!  Cut off I flipped him the universal sign of disapproval while narrowly avoiding a collision with the garbage truck.

I still found myself exposed on the shoulder.

Turning my blinker on in hopes a good natured commuter would let me in keeping my dream alive, I slowly continued along the shoulder.  This of course was a perfect example of letting hope overcome reason!

Once you start passing others that have patiently crept along waiting their turn there’s little sympathy for those of us thinking our situation is much more important than theirs.  The shoulder finally narrowed then ended at a small bridge that stretched over some nameless creek forcing me to stop altogether.

Blinker on I stayed there a very long time.

It was humbling to look over my shoulder rendering my very best ‘please help me’ look only to have all that passed laugh or applaud at my predicament.  I suppose I had it coming!


There are 3 Comments to this post.