We gonna drop some 411 on this here this here, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers


Barack Obama has to delegate responsibilities during the transition. For example, he asked his 7-year-old daughter, Sasha, to explain to President Bush what the words delegate, responsibilities and transition mean.

Did you see all the famous black people crying during Barack Obama’s acceptance speech? Oprah was crying, Jesse Jackson was crying, Spike Lee was crying. I haven’t seen that many black people crying since Pat Boone covered Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti.”

Barack Obama said, because of his daughter’s allergies, he has to get a hypoallergenic dog; it was awkward, president Bush offered to help Barack get a hypoallergenic dog by personally contacting the President of the fine country of Hypoallergenia.


Everyone wonders what the new first puppy will be, some say it will be combination poodle and Labrador to form a Labradoodle. Or Barack could get a dog to remind him of the Bush administration by combining a Bull Terrier with a Shih Tzu to from a Bull Shih Tzu.

Last week, President Bush’s dog, Barney, bit a reporter. The reporter is fine, but Barney is suffering from a severe case of smug liberal elitism. Today, Barney refused to fetch a ball for President Bush because he is from Texas, a hick red state.

During the NFL games, Bud Light advertises their beer’s drinkability. Drinkability is important because those other beers that are not in a liquid form aren’t nearly as good.

Prosecutors are not going to bring charges against former New Gov. Eliot Spitzer for his part in the prostitution scandal; Spitzer was so relieved he hired a hooker named Joy.

The McCain camp says that, during a briefing, Sarah Palin referred to the country of Africa; to which president Bush said; “That’s silly, everyone knows it’s the nation of Africa. Duh.”


The big question is what kind of dog Barack Obama is going to get and what will be its name. I’m not sure the breed, but I think we can rule out the names Hillary, Cheney, and George.


Since you asked:

Rattling around in my head is the first vague recollection that maybe I was getting older. It was a couple years after college, circa 1983, and I was living in a Bohemian studio apartment on West Third in New York and I was perusing the latest “Rolling Stone” magazine. On the back were the top songs and artists. For the first time in my life I did not know who some of them were. Knight Ranger? Ratt? Just what are these punk kids listening to?

As with most things to do with aging, my knowledge of those lists has gotten worse and worse. Now I am happy if I even recognize an artist or song. My life is at a point where the list of things I have no idea about is at an all time high: Facebook? What the . . .? “Gossip Girl”? “The Hills”? Are these actors or people or what? What the hell is a celebutant? The Jonas Brothers? Are they a thing that lives? Is Hannah Montana Miley Cyrus or vice versa? Hannah Cyrus? "Twilight"? Got zero cognition.

And what the hell were the Eagles -or what is left of them - doing on the Country Music Awards? People, I want some answers or I will be toting somebody’s tookus in my rucksack as of five-after-pronto, capice?

Outstanding.