SOCKS APPEAL

I’m always out looking for a girlfriend and every time I think I’ve found the right one, they get to know me and… and… and…

Well, it never seems to work out. Maybe, just maybe… my new one will love me for who I am – a soft, cuddly, sensitive, caring, honest and funny, all around good guy. “Funny” being the key word. I can only hope.

This morning, we were on the phone talking and I was telling her about doing my laundry and how I fold my shirts a certain way before hanging them up in the bedroom closet. You know, the usual routine. She mentioned a few things and one thing led to another.

I think it’s fair to say that everyone has some sort of quirky behavior, right? Peculiarities and the like, and I’m not talking about the bedroom variety. I mean in everyday life. Growing up, for instance, she knew women who starched and ironed their husbands’ t-shirts and handkerchiefs. Handkerchiefs, for crying out loud! I remember those days. My father always carried one and I thought it was a hideous practice to pull it out of the back pocket of their pants, blow their nose into it, and stuff it back into their pocket for God knows how long. Days and days. Enough of that.

I mentioned something – and I don’t think I’m alone – that I like to do. I only wear dark cotton socks. No matter what. No whites for me! Nothing wrong with that, I suspect. But I like to iron them. I own a sock iron, bought and paid for on Amazon Prime. It’s the best thing I ever invested my money in. Not only do I iron my socks, I collect them. Most of them are folded on special sock hangars in my closet, bought and paid for on Amazon Prime. They’re easy to iron except for the pleated ones.

Yes, I own scores and scores of pleated socks. Boy, are they difficult to iron.

She told me she had to go and hung up. Now, she’s not answering her phone. Do you think she’ll call back?

55 IN A 65 ZONE

August is my birthday month. No, I'm not soliciting birthday gifts or anything else just yet because it's not until the end of the month, on the 27th.

I grew up in the 60s and 70s and many of us from that era heard the mantra “Never trust anyone over 30.” Over and over and over. We were instructed to buck the system by the likes of Timothy Leary and Abbie Hoffman until, just like that, we turned thirty and became part of the system. So much for not trusting and all that crap. Turning thirty meant nothing to me. It was just a number.

Then came forty. Eh, it was just another number. Yeah, I felt a little older, but I was still young and active. I was a successful graphic artist and didn't feel any older than when I turned thirty. Forty was no big deal.

Along came fifty and I knew my days were numbered. No, not in a life or death sense. As a graphic artist, I was aware of the up-and-coming designers that would usher in more contemporary ideas and do it for less money than I was making - not that I was getting stale at all. It's simply the nature of the beast. I chose to ease myself away from the career I had chosen some 20-plus years earlier. I always wanted to write and thus began something completely new to do. Along came the Casey Anthony case and the rest is history. In any event, turning fifty didn't make me feel old at all. Once again, it was just another number, but the cracks of age were beginning to show.

Out of the blue, I hit sixty. It wasn't a huge hit, though. It was more like a rather strong gust of hot, dry air. Whoosh! But it didn't blow me off my feet. By then, I had plenty of time to emotionally adjust to the physical maladies that struck in 2005. I was a diabetic with other medical problems that kept creeping up on me. They still do. So what! I handled everything and I've remained an optimist throughout. Until...

This month, I will hit a milestone and I'm reminded of it every day when the mail comes. Supplemental health insurance policies. Solicitors that starkly remind me I'm going to be 65-years-old.

SIXTY-FIVE!!!

My life is about to change forever. On the 27th of August, I'm officially old. On that date, I will have to act “grandpoppish” even though I'm not, technically, a grandfather.

On my birthday, I will have to change my wardrobe. I will go out and buy light colored polyester pants that come up to the bottom of my chest. An elastic stretch belt. Maybe suspenders. Nothing but white short-sleeved shirts. Slip-on shoes and Velcro sneakers. A Seersucker suit!

From that date on, I will have to act my age. Decrepit Dave. I will start hanging out on pigeon-infested park benches and in the mall. The one in front of the Everything But Water store. No, not really. Instead, I'll be looking for my soulmate... a bunhead grandmother with gray hair; someone who wants to tell me about her grandchildren, now fully grown. The ones who stopped calling, except when Christmas and their birthdays come around.

Wait... I'm not ready for all that! There's an adult community right around the corner. This is Florida, after all. I'm going to learn how to play outdoor shuffleboard. I'm going to build up my confidence and go there to look for a young and perky 55-year-old. Oh baby. That's it.

I will feel young again! Maybe I shouldn't toss out those Wranglers just yet..

Doctor Dilemma

I stood and I stood and I stood and the receptionist was nowhere to be found. Finally, I heard a voice from the other window ask for my cell phone number. I gave it to her and then it rang.

"Hello?" I inquired. "Who's this?"

"This is the receptionist. You're standing at the wrong window."

"Oh." And I sauntered over to the other side. All I wanted were my special medications and I can't believe I waited so long.

When I finally walked through the door, a crowd of nurses stood by. They hugged me and patted my back. "There, there," they said, "everything will be alright, Mr. Dave..."

Conversations with Eddie

Eddie is one of those guys you just like. He grows on you. He's very easy going and impressionable. If you know anything about American westerns and cowboys, almost every hero has a sidekick. That would be Eddie. We work together. Although, I would not ask him much about politics or the state of the economy, I definitely enjoy having him by my side and he makes work and life much more enjoyable. Here are a couple of conversations we recently had. Honest to goodness, they're true. His words are highlighted in red.

x

After working outside on a rainy day...

That water was wet!

Yes, it was. It normally is.

Yes, but it was really wet.

Water is always wet, Eddie...

But...

Hey, Eddie, just because you put a rubber on your dick doesn't mean it's going to bounce.

Huh???

x

While driving past a Hooters restaurant...

Why do they call that place Hooters? I mean, it's not like the girls show off their...

No, Eddie. Don't you know what Hooters are? They're owls.

They are?

Yes. Haven't you ever noticed the owl in their logo? The eyes are the 2 "O's" in the logo.

Really?

Yes, check it out next time. Besides, they're famous for selling owl wings.

Owl wings?

Yes, owl wings. I mean, they're probably more famous for chicken wings, but they do offer them.

I thought they were on the endangered list.

No! There are millions of them.

Oh.

Besides, they don't kill them.

No?

No. They're like frog's legs.

You mean, they grow back, like frog's legs?

No, the wings don't grow back, but they don't kill them, either. You know how owls fly around seeking out their prey? Well, when they live in captivity and are fed every day, they don't need to fly around looking for food. Sort of like clipping parrot's wings. They just kind of waddle around after you cut off their wings. As long as you feed them, they're fine.

But, I've been to Hooters and I've never seen them on the menu.

They don't offer them all the time. Besides, they're very expensive.

They are?

Yes. You know how shrimp is always available, but lobster is always market price?

Yup.

Well, there you have it.

You know, a new species of albino shrimp was found in a cave somewhere...

Where?

I don't know. Somewhere in China, I think.

New National Park Will Open Soon

(API) Big Oyll, Texas - The George W. Bush National Forest & Wildlife Preserve, in honor of the 43rd president of the United States, George W. Bush, is scheduled to open to the public soon. "We have to clear out more trees, but it shouldn't take long," a park ranger stated, on the condition of anonymity. "Next year, the Dick Cheney Hunting Preserve will be open in Buck Shot, Wyoming."

Velvis

Fred Ressler, of Pareidolia fame, turned me on to an interesting website called Urban Dictionary. It is a slang dictionary where readers submit their own words and definitions. Velvis is a word I came up with in 1984, back when sniglets were in vogue. A sniglet is a word that should be in the dictionary, but isn't.

Velvis belongs in a class of art by itself. Similar categories would include, but is not limited to, assembly line rug/beach towel prints and paintings of heavy metal rock stars and jungle animals. Generally, you'll find these items for sale at flea markets, yard sales and high volume intersections (in gas station parking lots), in the urban sprawl. This genre should not be confused with collections of plastic flamingos and anything to do with Dale Earnhart, although in most cases, they are sold side by side. A genuine Velvis is a velvet painting of Elvis. Floyd traveled around the country, including in the ghetto, searching for Velvis paintings to add to his art collection.

Chemistry student's explanation of Hell

This is from an e-mail my brother sent me. I can't vouch for it's authenticity, but I found it to be rather interesting and worthwhile to publish here.

The following is an actual question given on a University of Washington chemistry mid-term. The answer by one student was so "profound" that the professor shared it with colleagues, via the Internet, which is, of course, why we now have the pleasure of enjoying it as well.

Bonus Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)?

Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when it is compressed) or some variant.

One student, however, wrote the following:

First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the rate at which they are leaving. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving.

As for how many souls are entering Hell, let's look at the different religions that exist in the world today. Most of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there is more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell.

With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially. Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle's Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls are added.

This gives two possibilities:

1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.

2. If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.

So which is it?

If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa during my Freshman year that, "it will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you, and take into account the fact that I slept with her last night, then number two must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and has already frozen over.

The corollary of this theory is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls and is therefore, extinct...leaving only Heaven thereby proving the existence of a divine being which explains why, last night, Teresa kept shouting "Oh my God."

THIS STUDENT RECEIVED THE ONLY "A"

Proud To Be Un American

Florida Humor

An old time citrus farmer in Florida owned thousands of acres of orange groves that had been passed down through generations. He had a small lake in the back, set back a spell, that was well stocked with large mouth bass and catfish. Surrounding it were his best orange trees. His property was fixed up real nice-like, too, with picnic tables all about under shady live oak trees draped in Spanish moss. There were horseshoe courts and plenty of other fun things to do, plus a good sized vegetable garden. On many days, the scent of freshly caught catfish and just picked okra frying filled the air. The wafting aromas were downright friendly and inviting.

Early one evening the old farmer decided to go down to the lake, as he hadn't been there for a while, and look it over. He grabbed a five-gallon bucket to bring back some oranges from the nearby trees. As he approached the lake, he heard water splashing and voices shouting and laughing with glee.

As he came closer he saw it was a bunch of young women skinny-dipping. He made the women aware of his presence and they all went to the deep end of the lake.

One of the women shouted to him, "We're not coming out until you leave!"

The old man frowned. "I didn't come down here to watch y'all ladies swim naked or make you get out of the lake." Holding the bucket up he said, "I'm here to feed the gator."

Mother Teresa's Ghost Endorses Hillary

(API) The late Mother Teresa recently endorsed Hillary Clinton for president of the United States by channeling her spirit through one of Clinton's campaign videos. How the message came to them was unclear and no explanation was given by the Clinton camp. The Catholic church is at odds with the late Mother's decision and had considered exhuming her body for a rite of exorcism until the Clinton campaign decided to partially abort what they deemed as the most inspirational part of the video by removing Mother Teresa's message. The church then said it would allow the rest to run full term and it was now a dead issue.

In the meantime, a Clinton campaign spokeswoman stated that, "In spite of the church's decision regarding this matter and our decision to remove that aspect of the video from airing, Mother Teresa stands fully behind Hillary and her message was loud, clear and unwavering."

A Message From Paris: To My Adoring Fans Everywhere!

Do you want to know what really happened to me, boys... why they let me out? Let me tell you, it was not fun in there. The TP was like wax paper. The food was... well, I don't even want to go there. It was, like, SOOOOO bad! Back to the TP tissue issue. For 3 solid days, I couldn't poop. Beautiful girls like me don't poop anyway, do we (wink, wink)? Oh, I pee peed alright, but I had to hold in that horrible food for, like, 3 days!!! Since I never pass gas (God forbid!) it got pretty nasty back there. The guards found me all pukey like and rushed me to the jail infirmary, where the not so beautiful female nurse discovered I had become quite impacted. Hectum in the rectum, oh my!

(Memo to nurse: Cut your fingernails.)

Anyways, I was taken to the hospital where I was given an enema. Canned peas and corn went flying all over the room! They decided to send me home. My tummy can't handle that type of food. Gimme a break! Corn flakes for breakfast, bologna and cheese sandwich for lunch? American cheese? Get real. Don't ask me about the meatloaf.

My poor little rearend hole hasn't been this sore since... well, we won't go there, either, since I don't talk to him anymore.

Thank you all for your support! I will be a good girl from now on. Ouch!

Love & Toodles,
Paris

An Intestinal Affair

When I sold advertising for a newspaper in New Jersey, the son of the publisher and I became pretty good friends. He was employed there as a photographer and was quite good. His sister also worked there, but I don't recall what she did. She used to have a crush on me in high school, but I had a girlfriend. Eventually, she ended up marrying someone else and my old girlfriend broke up with me. Too bad, she was a real cutie.

He invited me to dinner with his family one night. They lived in one of the nicer homes in town and were a relatively sophisticated family. Higher end kind of material, if you get my drift. The publisher’s wife was a published author and weekly columnist and the paper had been in her family for generations. Old money. His sister and her husband sat across from me at the dining room table which was adorned with fine linen, elaborate silverware and stemware. She was with child. We sipped expensive wine while awaiting the filet mignon treats the publisher was grilling outside. I recall it was a rather frigid night and it was very toasty inside. I must say, I have never had a finer filet in my life, to this day. It was nicely charred on the outside and pink and juicy in the middle. We all began complimenting the chef for doing such a great job. I never thought of him as being such an accomplished cook.

All of a sudden, his wife blurted out that, yes, for being in the freezer over a year, they were surprisingly fresh tasting. She had worried about freezer burns. Had she not said a word, I wouldn’t have known. Some things should be left unsaid.

"Good Bernaise," I said, as I savored the tasty meat.

"Oh, it's just one of those packaged sauces," she replied.

While feasting, her daughter began talking about her pregnancy. Mostly, it was a discussion between she and her mother, yet clearly, quite open and frank. The conversation became more intimate as she started to talk about the differences in her bowel movements since she had become pregnant. Yum. I tried to concentrate on my filet, all brown and moist, but it became less and less appetizing as it got more detailed in the bodily function department. I started a conversation with her brother and regained my compost, I mean, composure.

It didn't make me feel all tingly inside, but the intimacy they shared made me feel as if I was part of the family. At least, I knew I was no stranger in their house. And, having grown up in a very middle class family, this was my first taste of the world of the elite, and I learned a valuable lesson. Even rich people poop.

The 9/11 Conspiracy

Here is the absolute truth on the 9/11 government conspiracy.

Everyone knows that George W. Bush and Dick Cheney are deeply in bed with the oil industry. It's common knowledge. Most oil comes from Arab countries with strong ties to the Islamic faith. Consequently, Bush & Company had no problem rustling up some Arab miscreants to do their dirty work in September of 2001. In spite of the fact he had only been in office for 8 months before that fateful day, Bush had years of help and planning from a secret organization. I'll explain later.

Airlines are big business. Bush & Company are all for big business. He and the rest of the Republicans strive to reduce or eliminate corporate taxes. Heck, the administration would prefer that the government pay them to remain big and powerful. Promises were made by Bush. You supply the big jumbo jets filled to the brim with big oil company jet fuel and we'll compensate you in the form of tax incentives and other perks, like secretly flying in tons of illegal aliens at government expense. What's a few thousand lives and a handful of flying machines when the future of our great nation is at stake! We get to eliminate Saddam, take over the Iraqi oil fields, the oil companies get to jack up prices and big business wins, wins, wins!!! It's a no brainer. The loss of American lives on 9/11 and in Iraq will be replaced by illegals here. Eventually, we'll send them over there to do the work Americans don't want to do. Again, a win/win situation. We "dirty sanchez" the little wetbacks. How patriotic can you get?

As far as Bush being referred to as a Nazi, well, that's partially true. A hidden fact is that the Bush family has kept Adolph Hitler on life support since the end of Germany's reign of terror in 1945. Go ahead, Google "The Knights Preston" and the "Duh Vincheney Code" and see what you get. Don't forget to wish Adolph a happy birthday on April 20. He'll be 108 years old. Send your greetings to the White House.

Little known facts:

St. Elvis is alive and well in the minds and hearts of Minnesotans.

Walt Disney's brain is cryogenetically preserved in a hidden vault deep in the bowels of the Cinderella Castle at Disney World in Orlando, Florida. I know, I live there and I've seen it.

Area 51 exists. So does Roswell. Don't get me started on life on Mars.

By the way, are you aware that, in retaliation against the Republican Machine, the Democrats have kept John F. Kennedy alive all these years and he's living on a yacht somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of Massachusetts? He masterminded the midterm Democratic landslide. Google that, too. Oh, his 90th birthday is May 29th. Send greetings in care of Howard Dean. He's his doctor.

I would never admit to doing this ad

Truck Stop Humor

A trucker came into a truck stop cafe and placed his order. He said, "I want three flat tires, a couple of headlights and a pair of running boards."

The brand new blonde waitress, not wanting to appear stupid, went to the kitchen and said to the cook, "This guy out there just ordered three flat tires, a couple of headlights and a pair of running boards. What does he think this place is ... an auto parts store?"

"No," the cook said. "Three flat tires mean three pancakes, a couple of headlights is two eggs sunny side up, and running boards are 2 slices of crisp bacon."

"Oh, OK!" said the blonde. She thought about it for a moment and then spooned up a bowl of beans and gave it to the customer.

The trucker asked, "What are the beans for, Blondie?"

She replied, "I thought while you were waiting for your parts, you might as well gas up!"

A STERN REBUKE

With all due respect to Spartacus, Kirk Douglas and the recently departed Anna Nicole Smith, the ensuing circus has produced much fuel for fodder. Poor Dannielynn, and public support is next to nill for Howard K. Stern, Anna Nicole's enabler. I think he'll be pretty rattled by the time the truth comes out on who the real father is.

I came up with an idea and this is my first foray into digital recording. I created this in iMovie on my Mac and uploaded it to YouTube, Google Videos and Yahoo Videos. The YouTube one threw the sound off a bit.

Oh Mee, Oh My (Hic)

Poor Jennifer Mee. She's the 15 year old girl from St. Petersburg, Florida who can't seem to shake off the hiccups. She's had them for more than 3 weeks now. I can definitely relate. Two years ago, I had them for a week and a half and they pretty much drove me nuts, or as my friends might say, nuttier than I already was. I did a lot of research on the Internet, trying to find any sort of cure. I experimented with just about everything I read, to no avail. I tried holding my breath. I put sugar under my tongue and in the back of my throat. I breathed into a paper bag and drank out of the wrong side of a glass. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. I could not sleep at night and I got desperate. Finally, I made an appointment to see a doctor. My doctor had died, so I had to find a new one, one who had never met me or knew of my medical history.

When I got in to see this new doctor, I (hic) explained (hic) my (hic) dilemma. He looked down my throat. "I don't like the redness I'm seeing," he said. He listened to my neck, chest and abdomen. After a few minutes of careful examination, he made a diagnosis. "I believe you have a lung tumor." My heart sunk down into my butt. That should have been enough to scare the hiccups away, but it didn't.

"You're kidding?"

"No, that's pretty much what I think it is. I've had cases like this before and that's what it generally has turned out to be. I'm going to schedule you for chest x-rays and an upper GI."

"Oh, wow. In the meantime, can you give me anything, like Thorazine?"

"Thorazine? How do you know about that?" he asked.

"I looked it up on the Internet."

"No, really, how did you know about Thorazine?" He gave me a rather sharp and puzzled look.

"I'm telling you, I tried looking for a cure on the Internet and read about it." Thorazine (chlorpromazine) is a drug prescribed for schizophrenia. Seriously. It's also used to treat chronic hiccups. I think he wondered if I had a history of schizophrenia or some other psychotic problem.

"Yes. I'm going to give you a prescription for that." I felt a little relieved, in the hope that this drug would cure me. Hic, I mean, heck, I was more concerned with getting rid of this immediate problem than I was about dying of lung cancer. I left, and hiccuped my way to the pharmacy.

When I got home, I immediately unscrewed the cap and swallowed one of those pills. An hour later, nothing. Man, I thought, this is crazy. I took another one. About an hour later, I was in some sort of la la land I had never been to before. Wow. I was somewhere up in the clouds and decided I needed to get into bed. That was it for me. I woke up the next morning and the hiccups were gone. Bingo! Cured! My first solid night of sleep in what seemed like forever.

The following week, I went to get the tests done and a few days later, I went back to see the doctor. As I was walking into one of those waiting rooms, he passed me in the hall and said he had some good news and some bad news, but don't worry, the bad news isn't that bad.

He walked in with some papers. "You do not have a tumor. You have a hernia on your esophagus. You also have one here and here." He pointed to parts of my stomach. "You also have GERD." GERD is short for gastroesophageal reflux disease. I have always had bad heartburn and I knew I had damaged my esophagus through the years.

"I want you to get some Prilosec OTC and take 2 capsules (not one) a day."

"For how long?"

"Until I tell you to stop." which I interpreted as never. "I'm also going to write a prescription for an ulcer medication, not that you necessarily have one, but it will aid in the GERD."

I had a couple of follow up visits and everything seemed fine. I never really got the hiccups again, at least not like that. Every time I do hic a few times, I get scared. Oh, by the way, I asked what I should do with the rest of those schizo pills. "Throw them away. You don't need them." Yeah, right, like I was going to do that. Hah! At least, I never drove when taking them. That would have been crazy.

When Harry Met Stewy or How to ruin a good picture

This is a picture of my best friend, Stewart. He's the one on the left. We've known each other since we were kids. Recently, he and his wife were out in California visiting her brother and his family. Her brother is the head chef at Universal. While there, Stew connected with an old friend, Harry. Harry is an actor and he and Stew had their picture taken together for the first time since they were babies growing up in the small town of Ringoes, NJ. They hadn't seen each other in years. I remember Harry from my old high school days.

One thing that people should not do! Do not supply any sort of picture to someone who has extensive knowledge of Adobe Photoshop because the picture you send may be manipulated. I purposely did that once before in a post called "What you see might not be what you get. Read All About It!" to explain how it can be done.

Just in time for Valentine's Day...

Anyone want to send me their photos?

WMD - A Government Plant

I don't know if I should even be discussing this matter. It might prompt an onslaught of investigations by the FBI, the Department of Homeland Security, the CDC and any number of other government organizations. In the interest of national insecurity, I feel compelled to open up about this delicate subject. If anything ever happens to me, this might help explain why.

Last week, I contacted a government agency in a clandestine sort of manner, clandestine in the sense that no one else at the time knew I did it. No one was eavesdropping on my call. I was alone. I was given an agent's name and pertinent communication data. I sent an electronically encrypted message via SMTP-AUTH code. My writing was clear and concise and I included digital images to further explain my query. No one witnessed what my message contained. He responded with some interesting information.

It turns out, I have been harboring a deadly plant. A ricin producing plant. I have been for years. Ricin is 6,000 times more poisonous than cyanide and 12,000 times more poisonous than rattlesnake venom. Imagine if my secret toxin got into the hands of al Qaeda or some other terrorist group. I shall do my patriotic best to avoid this type of scenario at all costs.


I own an ornamental castor bean plant. So said Special Agent Al Ferrer of the Seminole County Cooperative Extension Center. He warned that the "seeds are highly poisonous" and that "the fruit is typical of the plant family Euphorbiacea which includes the cassava, coral plant, poinsettia, etc."

Many years ago, a woman I worked with gave me one and said it was a coffee tree. It was a nice looking plant and drew many compliments. After a swift freeze, it was gone. History. Dead. Years later, my brother and sister-in-law gave me one. I don't think they remember where it came from, but they knew I used to have one. It was about 2 feet tall at the time and within a few years it has grown to 8 feet. I had no idea what it was, but I never thought it was coffee. For one thing, the plant doesn't look like one and the beans definitely do not look like coffee, either. It produces thousands of little green pods, each with 3 beans inside. After a while the pod suddenly dries up and it explodes, sending these little toxic bombs all over the yard. Fortunately, the grass is mowed or else I'd have hundreds of those rascals growing all over the place. In Florida, it was used primarily in landscaping for its unique beauty, but it has since been classified by the state as a nuisance weed, because of how it rapidly propagates. There's nothing illegal about it, since many other plants produce poisonous seeds and leaves, but it probably wouldn't be safe to grow around small children because they'll eat just about anything they can pop in their mouths. If swallowed whole, it more than likely wouldn't do much harm, but if chewed, look out. I think most kids would spit it out because of the taste if they bit down on it. It is a native of Africa and grows in tropical and sub-tropical regions. The entire plant is poisonous, but so is poinsettia. Should they be outlawed? Nah. I'm not afraid of keeping it around. I really like it. It's become my plant friend. There are no children in the neighborhood. Besides, there are a lot more pretty berries that could do the same damage if ingested. These beans look like blood-filled wood ticks - not appealing at all. How many kids like to eat those?

I don't know if I should register this plant with the FBI or not, but I don't think you ever want to make me angry. I might just invite you in for a cup of my specially brewed coffee. Now, if I could just ship my exotic espresso blend to some of those autonomous regions tucked away in the mountains of Afghanistan and Pakistan, we might be able to win this war on terrorism. Better yet, maybe we could drop the pods from planes and wait for them to explode on their own. That'll fix 'em.

I'm waiting for the men in black suits to swarm all over my place, asking for help in spreading my own brand of WMDs - Weeds of Mass Deposit. I am here to serve, Mr. President.

Making A Prophet

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