Make sure you get your own out of it:

Use 100% organic non-homogenised butter (if you have access to farm animals), mix Pancake Mix (Hungry Jack or Aunt Jemima. if you are particular: check price!)(brownie mix would do good too), add an egg, milk, tar sand oil, mix ingredients well in a bowl, preheat, bake paddy cakes on a pan with tin foil laid at 369º for one hour or until cooked through and through and edible.

Add a shot of 95 proof honey vodka to the mix or else a sliced habanero for a taste kick.

Chester Puller -a day in the life of a great one

Richard knows she urinates in the toilet just outside the shower.  It is one of her less endearing habits and he mentions it to her numerous times that it bothers him. Looking over the top rail of the shower, Richard glances down at her simultaneously noticing there is some soap scum build up on the top rail.

"Hey babe, couple of things; you know it drives me crazy when you do that....and it looks like this top rail could use a good scrubbing," Richard says to her taking his finger and running it across the soap scum and holding it up for her to see.

"Should I get you a scour pad since you're in there?"

"That's YOUR gig baby, that's what you do....you keep the place clean and I love you for that. You make this more than a place to live for us...you make this a home! It's what you bring to this relationship."

"And what do YOU bring to THIS relationship?" she asks, irked.

"Me?" Richard retorts looking incredulous, "I dunno, humour, excitement, brevity, logic, security and a HUGE cock! Okay maybe not that last one....Mad Oral Skills; wait I guess that's yours too."

"So my contribution is keeping a clean house and sucking cock?"

"We've all got play to our strong points, know what I mean?"

She storms out without flushing because she knows that it drives Richard crazy.

Richard sees who becomes his ex today at a grocers after seven years.  She is married with a kid and pregnant.  Richard is happy to see her.  He approaches her from behind standing by freezers.

"You shouldn't stand so close to the frozen foods."

"Why not?"

"You might melt all the stuff!"

"Oh.  Richard!  You always had a charm about you."

"How much for your children?  I want to buy your children.  Sell them to me."

"What!?"

"Your children.  I want to buy them."

"My children are not for sale, Richard!  Security!"

Out of the back of the grocers, two security guards approach the woman Richard presumes to know at the grocer and she points out Richard who is exiting the store looking over his shoulder and glimpsing his ex pointing him out to the two guards.

Disappearing to the far end of a lit parking lot at dusk towards his car, Richard loses the officers amidst crowds, parked cars and traffic.  However, the ex whom Richard sees at the grocer remembers Richard's address and calls police to inform them of it.

Now, Richard is in prison.

May Crabs of 1,000 Hookers Infest Your Pubic Hairs:

I date a girl in high school who tells me that when she is on a school bus once, she looks out of the bus window at a man in a car masturbating in his driver seat.  She says to me that she thinks it "disgusting." She goes to an all girls school and wears a kilt-like, Catholic school girl skirt.

All the girls at the school wear the skirt with a white button down, blouse-type shirt through which straps of bras can be seen, especially when a girl wears a dark coloured bra and is reprimanded as a result by school administrators.

My girlfriend and me are walking up 5th Ave across the street from Central Park on a sidewalk in front of swank apartment buildings and I am lifting her skirt from behind exposing what is grained in my memory banks as white, cotton underwear wedged between supple, freckled and dimpled ass cheeks with legs which extend so that I cannot even imagine the possibilities unto this day.

Another older, woman pedestrian walking some paces behind us on the block laughs as I pull up my girlfriend's skirt and the girlfriend slaps my hand down reaching behind her when we look back at the only other pedestrian laughing at us while my girlfriend hurries our pace.

Now, twenty-five years later: I have an urge to lift a woman's skirt every time I see an appealing woman in a skirt.  Also, my favourite position when engaged in sex (for all it's worth) is hoisting a skirt over the hips of a woman doggie style, with panties pulled aside.

When I go for a test at a hospital recently and the nurse asks me about how many partners I have engaged in sex, I answer:

"I don't know.  Hundreds?"

"Well, we only go up to fifty plus," the nurse retorts.

"OK.  Fifty plus," I say.

Luckily, the test is negative so the nurse doesn't contact anyone and I find myself with a charmed life full of lustful memories of past girlfriends: now married with yellow teeth and a chain smoking habit, the which might render a divorce.

I am not picky.  I am attracted to all sorts of women.  A woman in a business suit and skirt with sneakers on her way to or from work is the most arousing eye candy that I can imagine for me today.

Hey!  I'm married: not dead!  I purposely go out on nice days to ogle women over coffee, park with my wife and point women out to her saying:

"I'll think about her the next time I do you," etc.: keeping it fresh! 

Cracked

"Ten O four."
"You got the four?"
"Yeah.  But, no bag."
"Yeah.  That's fine.  Just stick the bag over your head."
"What you mean?"
"You got my ten?"
"Yeah."
"OK then."
"Get the fuck out!"
"What's the problem?"
"You rude.  That what.  Don't come back!"
"Bitch!"
"What you say, mofo!?"
"I called you a bitch."
"Oh.  That right.  How 'bout I call police?"
"Call 'em, bitch.  I'm leaving.  Not coming back."

Richard eyes the clerk reaching for a phone on a wall behind the counter as he exits the store on his way home with a six pack of beer.

He walks a half block up the boulevard to his parked car when he looks back and sees the clerk in front of the store talking to a police man.

Suddenly, the clerk shouts and Richard hears her over the din of traffic on the boulevard heading into Santa Rosa from outskirts and suburbs where Richard buys beer and lives a few blocks from the store.

"There he be, officer.  That cracker!  I get you yet."
"Sir!  Sir!"

The officer calls out to Richard who is opening his driver side door as the officer is at once striding up to Richard and speaking into a radio holstered on his uniformed shoulder.

"Sir.  The clerk at the convenience store says you stole beer."
"I paid her.  I didn't steal it."
"She says you owe her money."
"Yeah.  Four cents.  I gave her a ten.  It was ten O four."
"Alright.  Have a seat over there and we'll get this figured out."

Richard sits on a curb in front of his car behind another car parked on the side of a busy boulevard in Santa Rosa.

A second officer strides down the block to where Richard sits on a curb and the first officer awaits the second officer.

The two officers exchange words in hushed tones over traffic noise and Richard looks down the block towards the store from his seated position.

He sees in the distance down the block a third officer place handcuffs on the clerk who accuses him of stealing.

The second officer to arrive on scene struts up to Richard seated on a curb and says that he is free to go.

"What happened?"
"We had complaints about the store.  That's all.  You're not at fault."

Richard stands and as he stands up from the curb in between parked cars, he stumbles catching himself on his car's hood.

"Have you had anything to drink tonight?" the officer asks.
"Oh.  One or two," Richard retorts.
"Step over here, sir!"

Tips for Writing Stories:

Write depicted scenes and depicted dialogues: the which thread elements of a point "between lines" when reading, without explicitly "pointing out;" as in narrating a story.

Write implicitly as to a point by employing depicted scenes and depicted dialogue of character sets in writing to outline a "big picture" upon completion of reading a piece.

Write stories in present tense.

For example: 

The man slips his feet out from his slippers, sits down in an easy chair, reaches for a cigarette out of a pack on a table next to the chair, slides one out of the pack, lights it with a match retrieved from his vest pocket after fumbling around for a light and puffs easing back into his chair at home.

Followed by THIS narrative:

He says to his wife seated on a nearby love seat that he has had a long day when she questions him about reaching for a cigarette.  

Or,

Followed by THIS dialogue:

"Honey?  Why do you have to reach for a cigarette as soon as you sit down?" his wife asks from a nearby love seat in the dimly lit living space of their house on a winter's night.

"I've had a long day."

A Pane Less Clamour

The restaurant kitchen bustles with wait staff scraping plates into a waste bucket at the kitchen entrance to the dining room.  Staff retrieve prepared dishes from the cooks' line about shoulder high placed under heat lamps on a silver metallic shelf while three cooks tend to stoves, ovens and grills preparing food to place on the line under heat lamps for wait staff to collect. 

Florescent lighting overhead illumines the kitchen. 

Staff serve dishes entering and exiting the kitchen into a chitter chatter filled dining room, as seen by a new dishwasher to the restaurant at his station peering through a square, pane-less window in a wall beside the dish machine: opposite to the cooks' line in a square room.

Not five minutes into his second shift at the restaurant as a dishwasher and at the beginning of a dinner shift around 5PM, the new dishwasher follows some wait staff and other kitchen staff who had started shifts hours earlier out of the back door by the cooks' line to smoke cigarettes.

"Five minutes into your shift and you're already going for a smoke?" a cook who had stepped out with the group of five smokers asks the dishwasher.

"Yep.  Well, there are no dishes."

"Yuck!  Those are some nasty feet.  Do you ever clip your toe nails?" a waitress outside smoking asks.

"That's probably why I don't have a girlfriend."

"You wear sandals to work!?" another of the kitchen staff asks the dishwasher.

"Yeah.  Why not?"

"Look!  I have a pen with the name of a schizophrenia drug on it," the waitress who comments on the dishwasher's sandals says as she pulls a pen from her apron and passes it around to the others.

It is passed to the dishwasher who is known to have been diagnosed "schizophrenia" by random people around town due to previous mishaps which resulted in stigmatic insults and assaults on the dishwasher.

At least, the dishwasher assumes that the waitress knows that he, the dishwasher, is diagnosed with schizophrenia from gossip as he is passed the pen with the name of the drug "Zyprexa" on it.

"Richard?  I want you to come in here," the manager of the restaurant calls to the dishwasher from the screen door to the back entrance of the kitchen and then disappears into the kitchen again.

Richard rises from a stool and goes inside stubbing his roll your own cigarette into a coffee can for butts outside. 

Inside, Richard stands at the dishwashing station awaiting further instructions and recalls the previous shift's conversation in the kitchen on the previous night.

"He probably never worked in his life," the waitress who passes around the schizophrenia pen had said to the lead cook on the previous night.

"No.  Richard has a job.  He works at the university."

"He does!?"

"Yeah.  Richard?"

"Yeah."

"Don't you work at the university?"

"Yeah."

"What do you do there?"

"I'm a scanner operator."

"See?" the cook had said in retort to the waitress on the previous night after which Richard finished a shift of washing dishes.

Awaiting instruction or dishes with sandals, jeans and wearing a T-shirt, Richard leans against the dish machine with arms folded and legs crossed.  The waitress who had been outside smoking and handing around a pen with the name of a schizophrenia drug approaches Richard by the dish machine with the manager close behind at her heels.

"I'm sorry about what I said out there."

"Hey.  No skin off my back."

The waitress looks dumbfounded to Richard by his response and she shuffles off into the din of the dining room out of the kitchen and the manager approaches Richard who stands at the dish station with his back to the pane-less window frame view into the dining room.

"You can't wear sandals to work.  Here's twenty.  Go home and come back tomorrow."

"Thank you.  I'll be sure to come again," Richard says as he takes the twenty dollar bill and exits through the back door by the cooks' line after twenty minutes into his second shift as a dishwasher at the restaurant.

On the next day at about an hour before the dinner shift for which Richard had been scheduled, Richard phones in to the kitchen sick never to show up again.

Applying for a Yob:

Dear Madam:

I am applying to the ad posted for "female specimen handler."

My qualifications of handling female specimens include dating 50+ female specimens in my life so that I am now hitched to one of those female specimens.

At fifty years old, I endeavour to begin a career with your company as a "female specimen handler" putting my 35+ years of handling female specimens in the 100s (or, 50+ on a scale) to practice.

I am positive that I am the man for the position and my extensive experience in handling female specimens is expounded upon in my attached résumé.

Please feel free to review my résumé and contact me about the position of "female specimen handler" at any time.

Thank you,

-JB ESQUIRE-  

Depraved:

"She looked in and there he was just looking right back up at her."

- News Anchor about a peeping tom inside an Ossipee, NH camp ground toilet some years ago.

The man said he lost his wedding ring in the toilet and that was why he climbed into it.

A teenage girl used the toilet and looked into it after peeing only to see the man.

The man showed up to court in a urine-yellow, collared shirt with his obese wife and was let off with a slap on the wrist.

They pumped the toilet and did not find a wedding ring.

an ordered list of eight things I care about in life:

Personally:

1. dog
2. wife
3. family and friends
4. cat
5. creatures of the earth
6. plant kingdom
7. having an open mind
8. people in the world

Philanthropically, http://pswtdsco.blogspot.com/ donates to:

1. Animal Shelters and Animal Rehabilitation Facilities
2. Senior Retirement Communities
3. "Children Homes"
4. "Women's Shelters"
5. Organic Farms
6. Cultural Programs
7. Emerging Music Groups
8. Addiction/Disease Treatment Center(s)

"I am 'black,' but comely"

"Racism" is insidious, pervasive and prevalent in the world.

It is built into societal frame works of "popular thought" and almost unavoidable both on personal levels and in cultural environs, no matter if one identifies with perpetuating "racism" or not.

"Racism" exists as a psychological reaction to differences between not only peoples' perceptions of skin colour, but also varies in other perceived differences such as beliefs, handicaps, monetary worth, sexism, etc. ... all of which can be regarded as "stigmas" to societies.

As a result, "racism" is a figment of the imagination manifesting in judgemental actions based upon perceptions.

For example: as a white man in America, I cannot help but think that another person whom I see on a street is "black," if I perceive them with "black" skin.

If I act on what I perceive and say something derogatory about a person's skin colour, the thought manifests in action to what is known as "racism:" just as if I act and say something derogatory about women, it is "sexism;" and, just as if I act and say something derogatory about some peoples' lack of monetary worth, it is "elitism;" etc.

By the same token, a black man likely cannot help but think a person is "white" upon seeing someone who is perceived as "white" on a street along with a profound knowledge that a person has "black" skin due to facts of historic, segregated societies and resulting lack of opportunities because of skin colour.

Basically: "racism" exists because people choose to perpetuate racist "thoughts" in "judgemental actions," the which denigrate those perceived as different in skin colour.

One never knows what another person knows.  Even if a person thinks to know another person or something, yet do they not know that person or thing.

People and life is a bottomless well of knowledge, wisdom and experience from which any one person or mankind can only surmise the surface to understand at any one point in time, with life and lives constantly in a flux of metamorphosis, change and unfolding.

Lastly: people have freedom to "think anything," but "acting" on "thoughts" is when "racism" and other "perceived positive and/or negative psychologies" of societies manifest.

"I look forward to the day when humans shall have sloughed off the body and become a vortex of thought." - Harper's Weekly, 1960s

Music Reviews 51 cents for 4 reviews over 1 hour on SlicethePie::

A crescendo introduction from silence into riffs of guitars, drums, keyboards, etc. and a message of vocals calling for "holding on to those dreams" resounds solidly as an alternative, type of new wave music suitable for radio.

Echoes of a drum and voices as of in a wilderness culminate the piece in a thoughtful (as if in capella) (or, in a drum circle) original message of what this author understood as "finding one self," as if!

Overall: the riffs, tempo, vocals, lyrics and instrumentals created a melodic piece of new wave, alternative music that this author would not mind hearing for a second time, or, as a song on a radio perhaps performed live over mic, broadcast and with interviews of the band members.

--------

"Twang" riffs of guitars, drum beats, keyboards lead into a country genre love song, which begs the listener to feel nostalgic about a loved one to whom the artist apparently indicates in the song as "you," or, "I'm on my way back to you."

A reference to a "middle seat" during the song narrates the artists travels from someplace distant on a plane to someplace where home, love and familiarity abound for the artist.

However, the lyrics seem to relate the fact that the artist wrote the song with a kernel of real life relations in the artist's life: except the artist made listeners an object of the lyrics with "you."

Overall, the melody is ordinary in that the guitars were strummed too loudly over a raspy, male vocal: which may have sounded better if a coquette night club singer were singing the song.

This song might be a good song to play in a piano bar at a major chain hotel or else as a street or fair act, but of the country music that this author has listened to on the radio: this song is not suitable for air time as it is.

-----

A blues/R&B selection which begins with bass guitar riffs, drums and a vocal reminiscent of a Neville brother pitch, this song feeds through speakers like a baby rocked to sleep inducing nostalgic longing for a lost loved one to whom the lyrics are directed.

The piece continues into a melodic piece with tempo in instrumentals and vocals about the subject of the lyrics (a lost loved one) to a three string guitar note uptick after a lyric explains "everything begins with a spark" meaning life renews.

Overall, this author liked the piece very much for its genre in ilk of Stevie Ray Vaughn, Neville Brothers and other blues greats.  The bass guitar resounded with an undertone throughout the piece and carried the vocals to a crescendo finish on three guitar notes.

------

Echoing into the introduction of the vocals, the instrumentals of what sounds like guitars, keyboards and percussions engage in riffs accompanying the female vocalist singing lyrics about a loved one.

"I can feel your breath inside me even when you are not near" is a testament of the loss that the lyrics narrate throughout the riffs to what progresses as solid sound without an echo ending in instrumentals fading while the vocalist sings the lyric of "fading."

Overall, the piece is a contemporary music genre and does not incorporate any new theme of the lyrics from other artists.  The piece is not a distinguishable piece other than if played in a small club with an entrance fee.

Community radio stations may be a market for the song along with an interview of band members, but the melody of the song is too bland and heard previously by myself, the author, through other artists.

As a critic of the song, this author does not see a major label or the recording industry selling millions of single tracks: but, there is a market for it in networking and gigs.  

------

Piano, drums, percussion leading into vocals, this is a slow song suitable for a piano bar in a major hotel chain.

Once again: a song is about a love lost evoking forlorn, nostalgic feelings of people, places, families and education about the subject of the lyrics being a "natural woman" worthy of respect, but "lost."

The religious connotations of the melody resound at the mention of "God" about five minutes into the piece and the song is probably a suitable piece for the contemporary christian music market. 

Vignettes in which People Call Police

It is a clear, crisp, November day with a southern exposure and autumn leaves are strewn on the sidewalk and lawn in front of me and the dog as we sit on steps up to where I have lived for thirteen years.

The dog begins to bark as a passerby walks down the block of three story apartment houses and I say to the dog to "attack" releasing the dog's collar as the male passerby walks past where I am seated on steps up to the front door.

The dog leaps across the front walk to the sidewalk and begins to bark incessantly at the passerby's legs.

"What the hell!?" the man yells.

"Oh.  I'm sorry.  Toodles!  Toodles!"  I say standing up and calling my dog who stops barking at the passerby when I call him.

"You know some people are afraid of dogs.  You've been drinking too much beer.  I could call the police on you," the man yells at me noticing a beer in my hand as I wave my hands upended in the air saying "sorry, it was just a joke."

---

It is a clear, crisp, April day with a southern exposure over the bay from my car in a tight space on a Sunday.

I am about to go for a swim in the ocean.  I park between two, tightly spaced, white, parking lines next to a metallic blue mini van on the driver's side so that when I open the driver door to change into a swimsuit, my driver door taps the minivan side panel.

I notice the driver of the minivan sitting in the driver's seat and he notices my tapping of his van with my driver side door while changing.  I indicate through his passenger window to roll it down so that I could speak to him.

"Sorry about that.  It's just that these spaces are painted too tight."

"Well, don't do it.  You're not chipping the paint are you!?"

"No.  The paint isn't chipped.  I'll try not to, but it's tight."

The driver of the minivan rolls up his passenger window from a push button on the driver side door.

As I finish changing in a tight spot with my driver side door tapping the minivan with the driver in the seat, the driver of the minivan rounds the back of his van to inspect any damage.

"See.  There is no damage.  All I was doing was this," I say as I show him how hard my driver side door was tapping his minivan while I was changing.

"Well, I could call the police," the driver of the minivan says.

"Call the police.  Do you know what their number is?  Call 911."

"Oh.  I'm not going to call 911."

"Do you know what their number is?  It's 867-5309.  Call them."

"Oh.  I know what the number is ..."

"Good.  Call them!"

The man walks round his van again to enter the driver seat and I go swimming.

---

It is a clear, crisp, April 15th, 2013 morning dressed as a clown buying what I am told is a soda pop put into a brown, paper bag by a store clerk up the street from where I go to drink the "soda pop" on a stoop off a parking lot behind a coffee shop. 

A barista steps out of a back door to the coffee shop from the parking lot, sees me sitting on a stoop next door with a brown paper bag and "soda pop" while the barista throws trash into a dumpster and enters the backdoor to the coffee shop only to exit the coffee shop to throw more trash away into a dumpster and have a word with me drinking a "soda pop" from a brown paper bag on a stoop next door to the coffee shop in a parking lot on the day of the Boston Marathon Bombing.

"You can't be doing that there."

"What can't I be doing?"

"You know.  Drinking that!"

"Drinking what!?  It's a soda pop."

"Yeah right, it is.  Either you move or I'm calling the police."

"Call the police," I say looking dumbfounded at a barista of the coffee shop that I have frequented for fifteen years.

"OK.  I will.  You should be easy to find," the barista says and enters the backdoor to the coffee shop.

I swig my "soda pop," leave the bottle by the stoop where I had been sitting and round the block building to the front of the coffee shop where I enter, buy a coffee dressed as a clown and exit without being seen by the barista who is calling the police on me in the back of the coffee shop.