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What is the world coming to when we can’t trust a man with 40 wives and 60 kids anymore?
August 30, 2006Personally, I haven’t been hot for a 13-year-old girl since I was about 14,.
So I never realized what a turn-on these young girls can be to older men until the Internet came along and exposed that a huge percentage of dirty old men are dirty old pedophiles.
This Jon Mark Karr ordeal shed light on how these dirty old guys move to Thailand to get their kicks.
And now we get the story of polygamist Warren Steed Jeffs -- arrested just outside Las Vegas on Monday -- who faces charges that he arranged marriages with 13-year-old girls and older men.
What is the world coming to when we can’t trust a man with 40 wives and 60 kids anymore?
Back when I was a kid and my Mama worked as a waitress at the Marchman Hotel coffee shop, I used to drop in just about every day to get a free lunch.
One day she had a special surprise for me.
“Guess who’s staying here at the hotel?� she asked me.
“Marilyn Monroe and Elvis?� I answered.
“Close,� she said. “He is a blonde and sings rock and roll.�
The answer was now obvious -- the great Jerry Lee Lewis.
‘Great Balls of Fire.�
Jerry Lee, who had a gig that night at the old MB Corral, had eaten breakfast at the hotel that morning and Mama had him agree to meet her 12-year-old son and sign an autograph.
She gave him his room number, and I nervously rode the elevator up to the top floor.
I knocked on the door.
Jerry Lee did not answer.
Instead, a girl my age opened the door. I didn’t know Jerry Lee had a daughter my age.
Later in life I learned that was not his daughter.
It was his wife.
At the age of 23, Jerry Lee married Myra Gale Brown, his 13-year-old second cousin once removed.
But Jerry Lee was not the only rock star to be hot for a 13-year-old.
Bill Wyman, the bass player for the Rolling Stones from 1962 to 1991, was 47 when he began dating 13-year-old Mandy Smith in 1983.
Strange thing is the Stones guitarist had the blessing of Mandy’s mom to date her daughter.
They dated for six years and then got married. Wyman was 53. Mandy was 19.
The marriage lasted just one year.
Then the story gets stranger.
After the breakup, Wyman’s 30-year-old son, Stephen, decides to marry Mandy’s mom, thus becoming the stepfather to his former stepmother.
Had Wyman and Mandy remarried, then Stephen would have been his father’s father-in-law and his own grandfather.
And you just thought Keith Richards was the strange one of the group.
Posted by at 8:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)
Schools, hospitals serve you crap and call it healthy
August 29, 2006Former Dallas Cowboys fullback Walt Garrison, a spokesman for Skoal chewing tobacco, like to tell a story about how he once was guest speaker for a luncheon sponsored by U.S. Tobacco.
He said there were about 1,200 people at the banquet and the food that was served was the kind “the prepare a week ahead and they freeze it and, of course, it ain’t worth a damn.�
During his speech that day, Garrison said:
“You know, this food reminds me a lot of the good Mama used to make when I was living at home. Only she didn’t sh** in it afterward.�
That’s my memory of school food.
Here you are in a educational atmosphere -- learning how to diagram sentences; how to figure out the area of an isosceles triangle and how to find India. So we trust these people to teach us how to eat properly.
And then they throw a piece of do-do on your plate cover it with some kind of tomato paste and call it meat loaf.
Did you ever wonder what was under that biscuit on top of your chicken pie?
If they had really wanted to know, they wouldn’t have covered it up with that biscuit.
The food didn’t get better when my kids were in school.
I think by that time they had passed a law against serving meat loaf and chicken pie, but only replaced it on the menu with something called the “western burger.�
I think that was the real beginning of mad cow disease.
If I was a cow, I’d be made too if they served me up and called it a “western burger.�
School cafeteria food is proof that evolution is a hoax and creation is truth.
Think about the food they serve at those church pot luck dinners -- fried chicken, potato salad , deviled eggs,
So who are going to trust -- the school or the church?
Also, if hospitals are so concerned with our health, why do they serve the crap they do?
Does it help you get well quicker knowing that you can escape the god-awful stuff they call food?
Or does it make you sicker thinking about what’s coming next?
That slimy pressed turkey -- just the thought of it makes me gag.
If the crap they serve in schools and hospitals are really so healthy -- I’ll just take unhealthy and deal with it.
Posted by at 8:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)
Me in the Dumber Than Hell 100? Wait 'til next year
August 25, 2006Are you going to ride this year, Nick?�
The big boss’ question drew a few chuckles from the bobble heads attending our mid-week CTD (Come to Darrell) meeting.
Hey, I understand.
Nick is 40 pounds overweight right now.
I haven’t ridden a bicycle in more than 30 years.
The thought of my belly on a bike at the “Dumber Than Hell 100� even makes me chuckle a bit.
Yet I could have been a real smart ass and reminded my boss that the greatest athletic achievement of his life was being water boy for the Burkburnett High School junior varsity golf team.
But I like having a job and getting a paycheck, so I simply answered:
“Not this year.�
That, too, made the bubbleheads giggle.
Maybe it’s because it’s the same answer I have had for the last 25 years.
The closest I have ever come to riding in the “Dumber than Hell� was when I was driving home from River Creek Golf Course a few years ago and almost ran over a couple of cyclists on the road outside the golf course.
I almost rode in it in 2004.
Now, I know that will get some giggles, but it’s true.
I got in shape that year.
From February of 2003 to November of 2003, I went from right at 250 pounds to 189.
I was eating right, walking three miles a day, riding a stationary bike three miles a day and doing a whole bunch of sit-ups.
My wife had ridden in the “Dumber than Hell� in 2003. That impressed me enough to want to give it a try.
So I told her and a few friends that my goal was to ride 25 miles in 2004.
Then I got the news that I had been selected to cover the Olympics in Athens.
The Olympics or the Dumber Than Hell?
Not a tough choice.
Then when 2005 rolled around, I was back out of shape.
A year later, it’s the same thing.
But there is always next year.
So, here goes -- my goal for 2007 is to, -at the age of 60, ride at least 25 miles in the Dumber Than Hell.
It will take dedication, training and --most importantly -- a bike, preferably a recumbent one.
The last bike I owned was in 1973.
Gas had gone to 50 cents a gallon, so I bought a 10-speed bike at Gibson’s to save money and also get in shape. . I put it in layaway and paid like five bucks a week until I had it paid off.
I rode it to work one evening but on my way home, I got chased by a big dog and never rode again.
So next year when the big boss asks: “Are you going to ride this year, Nick?� -- my answer will be:
“Yep, would you like to ride with me?�
That should really get a laugh.
Posted by at 8:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)
If they say it isn't a pyramid scheme, you can bet it's a pyramid scheme
August 24, 2006Years ago, a new couple in out Sunday school class invited my wife and me over to their home on a Friday night to “get to know you better.�
When we got there, we found out there were five others couples they wanted to get to know better.
Then another couple drove up in a high-dollar Mercedes.
He was slick. She was sexy.
Welcome to the world of Amway.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,� I said to my wife.
“Don’t make a scene,� she warned me.
Then the guy driving the Mercedes started telling us how he got up every morning around 9 and worked an hour or so, then went to the golf course.
“Anybody here have a watch like this?� he then asked, flashing the $10,000 Rolex on his wrist. “Here, take a look.�
He took the watch off and started to pass it around the room.
“If it gets to me, he won’t have a ‘watch like this’ any more,� I whispered to my wife.
“Isn’t this great?� our new “friend� said after the slick presentation.
“I’m not selling (bleeping) soap for you or your (bleeping) Rolex buddy,� I shouted.
We were handed some books and tapes -- all of which I slammed on a living room table as we later made a quick exit out the front door.
I never spoke to those Sunday school “friends� again.
Now, I am about to lose a good friend to multi-level marketing.
But, I guess, if our friendship isn’t strong enough to survive some sales gimmick, then it probably wasn’t all that good in the first place.
My buddy is selling electricity.
Not that he owns any, he just paid 300 bucks or so to “buy� the rights to sell it.
And as the pyramid scheme goes, he recruits others to do likewise and then they recruit others --etc., etc., etc.
How do you recognize a pyramid scheme?
When the “recruiter� refuses to call it a pyramid scheme.
That’s a sure sign.
It has been proven that the vast majority of people who become distributors in schemes like these do not make the “easy money� they think they will.
But some at the top do make big bucks.
They are the ones who show up at those meetings driving a Mercedes and wearing a $10,000 Rolex.
I drive a Mustang that is owned by Union Square and wear a $100 Seiko that I have owned for 18 years.
Multi-level marketing believers aren’t really selling a product. They are selling a dream -- a get rich quick dream.
One big reason that most people don’t make significant money from these schemes is market saturation. Once your start multiplying to two or three levels, the competition for sales really expands.
There is also a moral issue to these schemes.
The way the guys at the top make big bucks is that the guys at the bottom lose their money.
Anytime there are winners, there have to be losers.
To me the worse part of these schemes is that the recruiters start treating people close to them as “marks� instead of “friends.�
You end up eating lunch or drinking a beer with a high-pressure salesman rather than a buddy.
Relationships are exploited.
That’s the dilemma I am now in.
“You don’t want to save money?� is the line why friend has used on me so many times.
I would rather save a friendship.
Posted by at 8:32 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)
For the record, I didn't kill JonBenet
August 23, 2006
First of all, let me say I did not kill JonBenet Ramsey.
And I still don't know who did.
But I'm betting Gil Grissom could have solved this case in 30 minutes.
CSI-Las Vegas’ top man would have probably found some doodle bug crawling around outside the basement of the Ramsey home and linked it to the murder of little JonBenet.
Attorney Mark Geragos would have been defended the killer and had his own nightly cable TV show.
Everyone living in Boulder, Colo., would have been interviewed on CNN and Fox.
Col. David Hunt tells Bill O’Reilly that if he was on the jury, he would vote to stick a bayonet up the killer’s butt and then make him swallow a hand grenade.
Gretta would travel to Aruba and question everyone there about the case.
Michael Jackson would testify for the defense.
One witness would claim he saw Richard Jewell outside the Ramsey house on the day of the murder.
Or maybe it was Scott Peterson.
Could Charles Mason have ordered the murder from his jail cell?
One week ago -- 3,520 days after this little girl’s body was found -- the “killer� confessed.
‘SOLVED’ was the headline in one prominent newspaper the day after John Mark Karr told the world that he was with JonBenet when she died and that her death was an accident.
In other words, someone accidentally constructed a garrote from a nylon cord and the handle of a paint brush, slipped it around her neck and strangled her.
And the skull fracture was also an accident?
Sure, I believe that.
Today, this fruitcake schoolteacher will probably confess to the JFK assassination.
“I accidentally walked up to the sixth floor of the Texas School Depository, pointed my gun, pulled the trigger and blew the back of the president’s head off.�
Some newspaper will print the headline: ‘SOLVED.�
Once Ted Kennedy sobers up, all the major networks will interview him.
It doesn’t matter that it happened 43 years ago and John Mark Kerr is only 41.
He confessed. That’s good enough.
And while he’s in handcuffs, he also confessed to the kidnapping of Jimmy Hoffa, the murder of Laci Peterson and voting for Michael Dukakis.
We’ve got like four footprints and blood samples on the victim’s underwear.
Surely, someone should have already figured out if this guy is really a murderer or just a kook.
Gil Grissom would have wrapped up the JonBenet murder in half an hour and then started working on some of the cases of the other 200,000 American kids who have been murdered since then.
Posted by at 8:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)
Love me or hate me -- but first know me
August 22, 2006This is my 100th blog.
If you have read many of these since I started writing them back on March 28, then you probably know quite a bit about me.
That’s the nature of blogs.
Slowly, but surely, the writer reveals himself to strangers.
For the last five months, I have allowed you to look inside my soul.
You have seen a glimpse of my spirituality, my sensitivity, my sarcasm and my sense of humor,
You have met my family.
Yet you really don’t know me.
As revealing as blogs are, they are a mere sneak preview.
But newspaper columnists -- because they have opinions -- have many enemies whom they have never met.
People will say: “I hate that Molly Ivins� or “I hate that Ann Coulter� or “I hate that Carroll Wilson� or -- yes, even “I hate that Nick Gholson.�
Most of the time, they have never met us.
Once upon a time, not so long ago, I was told that a guy hated me so much that he walked out of a restaurant and refused to eat there when he saw me eating there.
I was eating supper with my two kids at the Pioneer on Maplewood.
My friend, Jeff Milam, later told me that once the guy saw me, he told his wife, “Let’s go� and angrily turned and walked out.
The guy apparently hated my guts, yet had never met me.
Sorry for losing you two customers, Marty.
A few years later, Jeff and I were at the Oklahoma City airport waiting to go on a trip to Vegas.
“See that guy over there?� Jeff said. “He’s the one I told you about who walked out of the Pioneer that night.�
“Watch this,� I told him. “I’m going to kill the guy -------
“With kindness.�
Jeff introduced me to the guy and his wife, who were also going on the trip to Vegas.
I got a cold handshake.
No smile.
And eyes that would not meet mine.
He lived around Petrolia, so I broke the ice by telling him my mama had been a Petrolia girl.
I then talked about covering the Petrolia basketball team and its trip to the state tournament in 1974.
Then we talked close to an hour about sports and Vegas and various other things.
A few days later at the Vegas airport, as we waited for the plane to take us home, the guy ran over to me with a big smile on his face and said.
“Hey, Nick. Are you coming home a big winner?�
He was actinglike I was his best buddy.
“Yep,� I said. “I’m a big winner.�
I didn’t tell him that I didn’t win a dime at the casinos.
But I won big at the Oklahoma City airport.
Isn’t it amazing how your opinion about someone can change when you actually get to know the person?
Posted by at 8:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)
Now you, too, can get into Paris Hilton's bed
August 21, 2006Not many porn stars have done what Paris Hilton has done.
At the tender age of 25, this filthy rich heiress endorses perfumes, jewelry, handbags, fashions and cosmetics.
Her TV series, “The Simple Life� somehow lasted four seasons.
There is talk about a new “Paris� cartoon series.
And she has launched her singing career with a CD named --
You guessed it -- “Paris.�
On that CD is her hit single, “Stars are Blind,� in which she sings (if you call this singing): “If you show me real love, I’ll show you mine.�
Sorry, sweetie, but much of the country has already seen yours.
Your porn tape won three AVN Awards last year.
The tape that Adult Video News loved so much was named --
You guessed it -- “1 Night in Paris.�
Remember how betrayed Paris said she felt when her boyfriend Rick Salomon videotaped their love-making session and let the whole world see them getting it on in between cell phone calls.
How could he do this to her?
Just because he had been a drug dealer, a professional gambler and a pornographer -- little “Sweet P� thought she could trust him.
She got even.
Paris sued Salomon and Red Light District Videos and got $400,000.
That’s enough to buy a new purse.
Oh, yeah, and she also got a cut from the sales of the porn tape.
Today, if you’ve got the money, you can crawl into Paris Hilton’s bed.
And you might be able to do it for just $1,500.
That’s where the bidding will open when Sweet P’s king-sized bed is being put on sale in an on-line auction.
You can also buy pillows, couches, lamps, etc., etc.
Everyone, it seems, wants a piece of Paris these days.
Posted by at 9:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)
The contender? No, the pretender.
August 18, 2006Evander Holyfield will be fighting again tonight in Dallas.
And you can bet a lot of smart-aleck sports writers will say he’s too old, too slow and too stupid.
First off, 43 is not old.
And I’m betting Holyfield could still get off a combination that would knock out some sports writer out before he could say “stu.�
The “pid� would later be spit out of his mouth, along with a few teeth.
And stupid? Holyfield is getting a half a million bucks for this fight.
He has earned $250 million in the ring.
As of 8 a.m. today, my net worth is $359.70.
I’m not about to call this guy stupid.
Holyfield may have only won one of his last six fights. He may have 21 months worth of ring rust.
But this guy can still whip 99 percent of the people on the planet.
And since I have lost every fight I’ve ever had, I can appreciate that.
Yep, my fighting record now stands at 0-for-forever.
I think I could have ended my losing streak, but that little crippled girl in the third grade always backed down.
I had two fights in grade school and went 0-2.
The first was in the fourth grade when, while walking home from school, I walked up to a “new kid� and said:
“Weren’t you the guy I was supposed to fight after school?�
He punched me in the nose.
To that I responded:
“No, I don’t think you are the one.�
His name was Keith Lavender.
Then in the sixth grade I fought Roy Brannon in the alley across from Austin School.
Roy and I were good friends and baseball teammates. When our daddies found out about our fight later that evening, they made us get together and shake hands.
That wasn’t easy for Roy to do. He had hurt his right hand pounding on my face.
I had a black eye and a busted lip. Roy had a sore hand.
From then on, I learned to bluff my way through life without having to get my butt whipped.
I lived in a tough neighborhood and spent a lot of time at the Boys Club, so I just hung around tough guys. That way people thought I was tough and never called my bluff.
The closest I ever came to winning a fight was at the pool hall one Saturday night when I was about 18.
I was taking a whiz when some thug came in and jumped me.
Somehow I managed to push him into a stall and was holding his head in the toilet. I should have flushed. But I didn’t.
And I paid for it.
The guy managed to get his finger inside my mouth. He had fingernails and he began to claw at the inside of my mouth.
I let go of my grip on his head and he ran out the door.
But the inside of my mouth was cut up pretty bad and bleeding. I ate nothing but soup and soft ice cream for a week.
I retired from fighting in the summer of 1967.
A good friend and I had been drinking dark beer at Shakey’s Pizza, and he decided he wanted to go visit our girlfriends, who both lived in a garage apartment over by Bridwell Park. His girl lived in an upstairs apartment and mine lived downstairs.
When we got there, his girl had company. She was in her apartment with an airman.
Well, Joe wanted to go upstairs and whip the guy’s butt.
I got in his way to stop him and he started fighting me.
He hit me in the eye and cut it so badly, I had to go to the emergency room and have eight stitches.
I hit him and broke my finger. They put it in a splint at the emergency room.
I hit him and break my finger.
He hits me and cuts up my eyeball.
I cant’ win.
So I retired.
And my fighting record when I retired was similar to Rocky Marciano’s.
Both had a zero.
Rocky was 49-0.
I was 0-forever.
Now, guys, if you read this confession and get the idea you would to kick my butt -- I must warn you -- I may be winless, but I am also due.
Posted by at 8:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)
Say a prayer for Mary.
August 17, 2006I wrote a "pity party" blog earlier today.
I was right. The whole world was wrong.
And nobody could make me see things any other way.
Then somewhere between 2 and 3 p.m., the whole world changed.
All of sudden, "I" no longer mattered.
Mary Newell, a co-worker and friend, just got the news that her little granddaughter had been killed in a car crash.
My "pity" has turned to pain.
I hurt for Mary. I cant' imagine what she is going through.
I don't want to know.
God, please, I never want to know.
I know how much Mary loved that girl.
I know how much I love my little grandson.
So I'm hurting inside for my friend.
I said a prayer for Mary.
God, please comfort my friend.
Comfort?
Is it possible?
The Bible says "with God, all things are possible."
So I will continue to pray.
And hurt.
Earlier in the day, my daughter invited me over to her house tonight. They are putting up some kind of slide in the backyard for my grandson to play on.
I told her I was tired and probably would just stay at home.
All of a sudden, I'm not so tired any more.
How could I pass up a chance to be with my grandson?
Not today.
Please, say a prayer for Mary.
.
.
Posted by at 8:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)
Thanks, Texoma; You finally got it right
August 16, 2006I had a nice acceptance speech written out for the “Texoma’s Best� party last night.
But before I could get it out of my pocket, they were moving on to the best nun or the best hooker or the best glass of ice water or something like that.
So my Tuesday night speech just became my Wednesday morning blog.
I feel honored and privileged to be here tonight.
I will cherish this travel mug -- made in China -- forever and ever.
First, I want to thank all the voters who made me “Texoma’s Best� local writer this year.
YOU FINALLY GOT IT RIGHT.
Now go work on “Texoma’s Best� onion rings. Those frozen ones at Sonic just aren’t in the same league with the homemade ones at Pat’s.
I want to thank my mama and daddy.
Without them I would not be here tonight.
Good job, Earle and Freddie. I couldn’t have done it without you.
I also want to thank Charlie Hampton, my seventh grade teacher, who had a major impact on my life.
He took a young juvenile delinquent off the street, believed in him and encouraged him and turned his life completely around.
Thanks to Roy Allen, the Midwestern journalism teacher, who instructed me and guided me into the newspaper business.
Thanks to Ted Buss for hiring me. (Sorry I threatened you.)
Thanks to all my Times Record News bosses -- and especially Charles Ward -- for not firing me all those times I probably deserved to be fired. (Was it because I was such a valuable employee or because I work so cheap?)
Thanks to my wife, Jenee’, for supporting me. I love you.
Thanks to my kids, Tommy and Christy, for enduring a single father.
Thanks to Nicholas for being the cutest grandson in the world.
Thanks to the late great Lewis Grizzard, who inspired me with his wit and wisdom and gave me an example to strive for.
Thanks to local writers like Larry McMurtry and Jim Hoggard and Lynn Hoggard who probably deserve this more than I do.
Thanks to all my old pool hall buddies. You are my life story.
Thanks to Grandma Gholson for being the Christian example this young boy needed in his life.
Thank you, God, for all these people -- and also the ones I probably forgot.
Posted by at 8:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)
Bullets? I don't need no stinking bullets
August 15, 2006In my business, you travel a lot in pairs.
So in the past 34 years, I have put in a lot of road miles with several photographers and sports writers.
Since we are co-workers, the one thing we have in common is the paper.
So much of our travel conversation is about the good, the bad and the ugly of the Times Record News.
And we play little games to make the time pass quicker.
One game is naming our top 10 chick list.
The best divas at the TRN.
I’ll leave that one to your imagination.
The other game we like to play is called “six-shooter.�
You’ve got six bullets.
How do you want to use them.
Once upon a time, not so long ago, I could empty my six-shooter in about, oh, 30 seconds.
Two for the publisher.
Two for the editor.
(These two get two bullets just in case one isn’t enough.)
The other two go to the jerk in the backshop and the lazy good-for-nothing overpaid guy over in the corner who only has a job because (1.) he’s related to the publisher; (2.) he’s a friend of the editor or (3.) he’s got pictures.
The publisher is the guy in the front office who signs your measly little paycheck.
He’s the one you have to go say “thank you� to for that $7.50 Christmas bonus.
He’s the guy who shoved a photo of a girls softball team in your face and orders you to put it in the paper, only because one of the girls just happens to be the daughter of his country club neighbor.
He’s the rich guy who makes sure you stay poor.
The editor is the publisher’s “Yes man.�
He got where he is by kissing lots of butt.
He’s the guy who thinks the “America’s Cup� is the greatest sporting event in the world.
He wants more “non traditional� sports stories in the paper to attract non-sports fans and run off real sports fans.
He wouldn’t know a football from a Milk Dud, but he wants to tell you how to put out a sports section.
He beats his wife and sleeps with the new female reporter.
I’ve hated the backshop guy since my first day on the job.
He majored in “shop� in high school and hates you because you went to college.
He was put on earth to make people like me miserable.
Now for the guy in the corner.
He stays busy all day but does nothing.
That’s because “nothing� is what he does best.
The editor could fire him and, with the money saved, hire two good reporters.
But that won’t happen.
In fact, there’s a even a better chance that this bum will some day be the editor.
That was the way life was in the “bad old days.�
Today I have the best publisher and editor that I have ever had.
We don’t have a backshop, so that jerk has been gone from her for more than 10 years.
The people I work with here at the paper are all my friends.
So I guess we need to find a new game.
Posted by at 9:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)
Roll away the stone!
August 14, 2006When I felt the sharp pain Saturday night, I knew exactly what to do.
My wife drove me to the hospital emergency room. I walked in and diagnosed myself.
“I have a kidney stone,� I told the nurse.
The doctor gave me some good drugs, confirmed my diagnosis, wrote a prescription for some more good drugs and told me to go home and drink plenty of fluids.
I got back home in time to watch the second half of the Cowboys’ game.
It wasn’t so simple 20 years ago when I had my first kidney stone.
I woke up in the middle of the night with pain like I had never felt before.
(They say kidney stone pain is similar to a woman’s labor pains. Some women say the stones are worse.)
I woke up my wife and told her:
“I’ve got cancer. I am dying.�
When we left for the hospital, I took one final glance at my home. I knew I would never see it again.
At the hospital, the emergency room nurse asked what my problem was and I told her:
“I have terminal cancer. I am dying.�
But before I could die, I had to fill out all kinds of insurance information.
These good folks at the hospital didn’t want me to meet my maker without first meeting all the Blue Cross-Blue Shield requirements.
Once they were convinced that the Blue group would pay the bill, they asked where I was hurting.
When I point to the painful area, the nurse said, “Oh, you’ve got a kidney stone.�
So they gave me good drugs and made an appointment with a urologist later in the day.
If this ever happens to you, take the drugs and skip the appointment.
Blue Cross and Blue Shield was not good enough for the urologist. They wanted 70 bucks up front before letting me in.
For my 70 bucks, I was placed in a stirrup thing to wait for the doctor. When he came in, he smiled at me, then turned his back and started asking:
“How do you think those Cowboys are going to do this year?�
Before I could say 4-12, he turned around and smiled again. Only this time he was wearing a latex glove.
And his finger went straight for my pookey.
“Why was this guy looking for a kidney stone in my pookey hole?�
He removed his finger, took off the glove and smiled again.
I never got to tell him how I thought “those Cowboys are going to do this year.�
He told me to get down, put on my clothes and come to his office.
When I got to his office, he told me to go home and drink a six pack of beer.
The stone, he said, is about ready to come out.
I drank six beers. The stone didn’t move.
I drank six more. Still no stone.
I kept drinking until I got the point that I forgot all about the stone.
But when I woke up the next morning, I was still in pain.
Budweiser stock skyrocketed for the next week, but the stone finally left me.
A year later, another one took its place.
At the emergency room, the doctor gave me good drugs and told me he was making me an appointment with a urologist.
“No thanks,� I told him. “The last time I went to the urologist, I had 70 bucks and a kidney stone. When I left, all I had was a kidney stone and fingerprints in my pookey.�
And I have never needed a doctor to tell me to drink a six pack of beer.
Posted by at 8:16 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)
Best of Nick
August 5, 2006I'm taking a little vacation time this week, but if you need a Nick Fix, here are some old blogs you might want to go back and read either for the first time or read again. These are five of my favoritesl
Monday: read "Hug your mama. I wish I could hug mine." May 12
Tuesday: read "I ggot gscrewed gin gthe gspelling gbee." June 1
Wednesday read "Daddy, I love you." June 16
Thursday read: "I don't hug men or ugly women (well, I try not to)" June 28
Friday read: "Welcome to Automated Telephone Hell, Press 1" July 20.
Just click the dates on the monthly calendar.
Oh, if you have never seen me in my underwear, go to the archives June 9 and read: "BS: Baby Stupidity"
I';ll be back on Monday, Aug. 14.
Posted by at 2:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)
Nick, New York and Norman for under five grand
August 4, 2006The invitation came in the mail Thursday -- addressed to Mr. Nick Gholson.
(Jesse Jackson was right -- “I AM SOMEBODY�
The Ritz Carlton Hotel in New York wants me to be its VIP guest in November.
If I accept this invitation to come to the New York Marathon, I and my guest will receive
(1.) Two nights in a Park View Suite overlooking Central Park
(2.) Access to the exclusive Ritz-Carlton Club Lounge with complementary food and beverage
(3.) A breakfast banquet at Tavern on the Green
(4,) Two VIP Marathon finish line tickets, compliments of Tiffany & Co.
(5.) $200 Tiffany & Co. gift certificate. (Hey, it may only buy you a shopping bag, but it’s free).
My wife will be visiting her mother that weekend. (She doesn’t know it yet, but she will.)
So all you beautiful hot sexy ladies out there, pick up that phone right now and start calling:
1-800-Lover Boy
Or just email me at hunk-a-hunk-a-burninglove@aol.com
Quit drooling, girls.
There’s more.
My invitation says our hotel suite is in walking distance of Fifth Avenue’s finest shops, boutiques and cultural attractions. (I prefer we skip the cultural crap and head to the free bar.)
We get to use the Ritz-Carlton spa -- a high-dollar massage parlor.
We will have access to a well-equipped fitness center with personal trainers. (Blow that off and go back to the bar.)
We will be able to view a multi-million dollar art collection. (You can do that while I visit the massage parlor)
Afternoon high tea. (I will be at the bar when you finish.)
And to top all this off, the invitation says we get “the wit and charm of famed bartender Norman.�
Wow, the Ritz, Tiffany’s and old Norman to go with it.
If you want to know more about Norman or any of the other good stuff, you can call the Ritz-Carlton at 1-800-241-3333 (just tell them you know Mr. Nick Gholson) or you can go online at www.ritzcarlton.com.
So who’s the lucky lady going to be?
Oh, I forgot one thing.
The price of this two-night package starts at $4,090 (not including tax or gratuity.).
They will take your cash, check or money order.
Hurry, call today. This is a limited time offer.
Nick, New York and Norman for under five grand.
It’s a steal.
Posted by at 8:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)
Pricks and passing gas in my paper?
August 3, 2006If you are not a subscriber of our paper, you are missing out.
Today for only 50 cents -- the price of a paper cup at Starbuck’s -- you can get a chance to be on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno and also learn everything you would ever want to know about passing gas.
Just turn to the B section -- Page 1, top story.
“Business pricks up.�
Some headline writer tried to be cute on a story about inoculations.
But the really cute part is there at the end when it says -----
(Drum roll, please)
“Please see PRICKS, Page 2B.�
Now clip that and mail it to Leno right now.
You might expect to see the word “pricks� when you read my daily blog.
I might be inclined to tell you that Al Qaeda is nothing but a bunch of pricks.
Or I might say T.O. is a prick.
But “prick� is not something you expect to see in your morning paper.
Now what are we going to find when we “Please see PRICKS, Page 2B?�
A puncture mark?
A picture of Osama Bin Laden?
A… a….a….. a…..a…….penis?
No, the only picture of anything on Page 2B is of a guy giving a two-finger shoulder massage to some girl.
It’s an ad about sexual dysfunction, of all things.
But just three columns to the left, we see that word again ---
“PRICKS continued from Page 1B.�
My old boss Rhea Howard would turn over in his grave if he saw this in his paper.
Now, turn to Page 4B -- the health page.
The headline on the story reads: “Not a joking matter.�
Too late, I’m still laughing about the “pricks.�
Now we have a story about “flatulence.�
That’s a second semester word for farting.
Or for you dignified ladies out there -- tooting.
Chew your food.
Avoid cabbage, onions and Brussels sprouts, corn and potatoes.
Chew fennel seeds whatever the heck they are.
Drink some Beano.
And presto, you will never fart again.
Yeah, right!
But to tell you the truth, I think I would rather fart than chew fennel seeds (whatever they are).
Posted by at 8:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)
Big boys may not cry, but fat boys do lie.
August 2, 2006“Hi, my name is U.R. Phat and I’m with Thomson Medstat. We’re a health-care research firm that is currently conducting a survey, and I would like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.�
“Sure.�
“How tall are you?�
“5-foot-2.�
“And your weight?�
“297.�
“Man, you are a hefty bag. But guys like you are what we are looking for in our survey. Tell me, fat boy, what did you eat for breakfast this morning?�
“Bran flakes. A grapefruit and skim milk.�
“Interesting. And for lunch?�
“An apple.�
“Hmmm. And for supper?�
“A green salad with no-fat ranch dressing. Grilled chicken. Cottage cheese and fresh strawberries.�
“Any snacks?�
“I did splurge a bit tonight because there was a really good program on the Discovery Channel. I ate half a banana.�
“Did you exercise today?�
“I jogged five miles.�
That’s the kind of answers Thomas Medstate probably received in its recent telephone survey of the eating habits of more than 11,000 people.
More than three-quarters of obese Americans surveyed said they have healthy eating habits.
Around 40 percent of these fat boys and fat girls said they do “vigorous exercise� at least three times a week.
The headline in our paper today said: “Survey. Most obese people say they eat health food.�
There is just one thing wrong with this survey.
THEY LIED.
But what do you expect from some fat ass sitting on the couch and answering a telephone survey?
Here’s what this survey would sound like if they told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
“What did you eat for breakfast this morning?�
“A couple of eggs, sausage, hash browns, biscuits and gravy.�
“And for lunch?�
“A double cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate malt.�
“Supper?�
“Chicken fry. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Red beans. Hot rolls. Chocolate pie.�
“Any snacks?�
“Well, I watched the South Park movie, so I did get high and munch on two cans of Pringles and a bag of Oreos.�
“Did you exercise?�
“Does on-line poker count?�
Posted by at 8:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)
I didn't want to write this, but I did
August 1, 2006I came to work today not wanting to write a blog.
My attitude was I don’t give a rat’s ass about anything. And I don’t have anything to say that is worth reading.
The next few paragraphs will either prove that or disprove it.
You make the call.
The one thing that would make me happy today is if CNN reported a mushroom cloud hanging over Iran.
If we bombed the Ayatollah crap out of these American-hating terrorists, it would make my day.
I mean wipe the whole country off the face of the earth.
“But what about Syria?� my liberal editor asked when I told him this.
Screw Syria.
Let’s see how united the Muslim world would be if they saw Iran disappear before their very eyes.
As Jack Nicholson said in “As Good As It Gets,� --- they “will be back on their knees in no time.�
Cuban leader Fidel Castro is sick.
His old stomach is bleeding.
I hope he dies.
Today. Like right stinking now.
I want his death to be painful.
This old fart has been a pain in our royal buttocks for 47 long years.
Bye, bye, Fidel.
Enjoy Hades.
The big question on Yahoo today is:
“Does Money Buy Happiness?�
How the hell would I know?
I work at the paper.
Most print journalists live paycheck to paycheck.
My total net worth today is $242.06.
But if Bill Gates isn’t happy with his $51 billion, then tell the little nerd to throw a billion or two over here and I’ll show him happy.
I know about all those multi-million dollar lottery winners who end up broke and miserable, but that’s only because they are dumb asses.
Does money buy happiness?
I can’t say for sure, but I’ll bet you $242.06 that it would buy this old guy a whole bunch of it.
The Texas Rangers fell into last place Monday night.
But don’t worry.
After all, they did sign a new pitcher with a 9-23 record the last two years and a new first baseman-outfielder who was hitting a hefty .261 with the Royals.
With any luck, they will be back in third place before the end of September.
TO caught a pass in training camp Monday and dunked the ball over the cross bar.
I wonder if he would be interested in being the next dictator of Cuba.
Posted by at 8:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)
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