How To Catch A Monkey


In celebration of the end of an overall suck-y year, it occurs to me to pass down to you, fair reader, this important technique—just in case you find yourownself shipwrecked or otherwise stranded on a desert island; to wit—How To Catch A Monkey For Fun & Profit!

Now—I know what you’re thinking: “Dick—why in the name of sufferin’ Jesus Christ hisownself would *I* ever want to catch a monkey”?

Pay attention; here’s the story, straight from Dear Old Dad to me, and now to you: Dad clocked a coupla years’ “vacation” on Okinawa back in the 40’s—if you know what I mean and I think you DO. He told me that the day they landed on that ball o’ mud, it was virtually a beautiful tropical paradise; when they left, there wasn’t a single blade of grass left! But I digress.

One drunken evening when Pops was in a “talkative mood” (the sum total of which I can count on both hands and give you some change back), he related (and of course took FULL credit for) this technique for how he and his platoon caught monkeys: “You take a half pint glass “cream bottle” (Sidebar—this was back when the milkman DELIVERED milk/cream to your DOOR—you had a galvanized steel box on your doorstep—you’d leave “the empties” inside at night, go out in the AM, and Voila—glass bottles of milk and cream waiting for you!) fill it with nuts/berries, tie it with ~12″ of rope to the base of a tree, and remember where you left it.

A monkey—heretofor referred to as “The Victim”—would see/smell those fine treats, sidle on over to “the trap”, stick his/her paw inside, grab a pawful of nuts/figs/raisins, and TRY to pull his full paw out—not gonna happen! The Victim was too greedy or too dumb to let go of its treasure, so the next day, when Dad would return—The Victim would be (angrily) waiting!

Dad would throw a burlap bag over the poor dumb bastard, untie the bottle from the tree, and haul him/her back to camp. He would then put The Victim in a makeshift cage and offer it some nuts or a piece of fruit—then and ONLY then would the monkey release its greedy grip on the treasures in the bottle.

If it was a young female monkey, the boys would often be able to domesticate her into a fine pet—Dad said that w/in 3 months, about a dozen of his squad had pet monkeys! If it was a male monkey and/or an older monkey, there WAS no domesticating it—so they killed it, skinned it, put it on a spit, cooked it, and ATE it (tastes like chicken?)…

So there you have it—some practical info from Dear Old Dad to Dick Jones to you—givin’ some news a Brutha/Sista can USE; now go and do likewise!


The Pandemic Of Acronyms

Go ahead—call me “Old School”, or just OLD—but WTF is it with virtually ever’THANG being instantly converted to an acronym these days I wanna know? It’s not just in texting any more neither—it is EVERY-FUCKIN’-WHERE!

Here’s the drill—define something into existence, then IMMEDIATELY assign it an acronym, so that you (the “inventor”) NEVER EVER has to use the defined term AGAIN!

Now sure, I know that acronyms have been around virtually FOREVER—caveman drawings had ’em; Freddy Flintstone made use of ’em; the Egyptians laid ’em down—hell, even my CATS use ’em anymore!

A quick Google Search tells me that there are over THREE MILLION of them:

I’m sorry—TOO MUCH TOO MANY! Won’t be long before entire VERBAL conversations will just be acronyms—”IWGTL; YWGWM?” (Translation: “I wanna go to lunch; you wanna go with me?”).

I always wonder, as I’m reading the latest string of acronyms in whatever I happen to be reading, JUST how many of my fellow readers that are reading the same thing REALLY know what the author is referring to 100%; or do they just “move ahead” in blissful ignorance, like *I* usually do…

I predict a future pretty much like in “Blade Runner”, where ALL language becomes a “blur” of acronyms, abbreviations, grunts, and psyco-babble—NO fuckin’ BODY will REALLY know what ANYBODY ELSE is saying, but will rather nod in agreement.

I feel sorry for the future women of the World—at least men have a set of balls to scratch emphatically—’cause that’s what men DO! NEMWISMB’s…

I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night…

Clever, ain’t it? Too bad *I* didn’t think of it—I must give a tip o’ the hat to The Electric Prunes for their sixties hit by the same name; VERY applicable to myownself last night though!

I’m talkin’ Tier One Kubla Khan Shit—midget winged monkeys with cowboy hats flying through the keyhole of the bedroom door by the hundreds; pirate ship coming across the bedroom carpet with Long John Silver at the helm, FULLY equipped with parrot, peg-leg, hook-hand and eye patch; intertwined slithering balls o’ snakes like an M.C. Escher litho ; lions & tigers & bears oh MY! Damn—who slipped the morphine mickey into my cocktail last night, I wanna know?

Woke up this AM with a pair of sore eyeballs, no doubt the result of “REM Overtime”—guess it was the standing rib roast, horseradish mashed potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, pumpkin pie, and Bailey’s Irish Cream shooters consumed with reckless abandon into late in the evening. Ah well—as long as I didn’t wake up with a used condom hangin’ out of my ass and/or a “recreation tattoo” of the above dreamfest on my chest, it musta been a good X-Mas!

Permission To Kill The Guy…

…that invented those GOD-DAMNED rubber-nubbed yellow “speed bump strips” that sprang up virtually OVERNIGHT outside of EVERY Mutha-Fuckin’ retail establishment that has shopping carts (“Buggies” for you Southern Folk); I mean—REALLY?! Were “runaway shopping carts” THAT much of a problem I wanna know?

Since Peggy “works a real job”, then “somebody” has to do pretty much all of the shopping here in the Jones household; that SOMEBODY is ME.

So I come outta the grocery store last week, a dozen eggs (I THOUGHT) safely sequestered in their nice Styrofoam conveyance—the one that got them intact on their long journey from outta the chicken’s ass, then a few hunnert miles in the back of a tractor trailer, into the store, onto the shelf, into my cart, through the checkout line, back into the cart—then OVER that testicle-jarring berm strip; as I was unloading the victuals into the back of my old SUV, there’s the egg carton, LEAKING from a broken egg! And yeah—I’m one of those people that checks EVERY fuckin’ egg in a given carton of eggs BEFORE I put it in my cart, thanks for asking…

Those fuckin’ strips—what’s WITH those things ANYWAY?! I’ll bet that I personally have been to the grocery store and/or someplace where I wheeled a “buggy” out to my vehicle at LEAST 15,000 times in my 58 years on this ball o’ shite—I can’t remember NEVER EVER “losing control of my shopping cart” (discuss amongst yourselves); have YOU? Put that item FIRMLY in the “Solutions to problems you never knew you HAD” checklist.

Oh yeah—let’s not EVEN get into the tooth-rattling, filling-loosening shock waves that occur as you go OVER those fuckin’ things; reminds me of the old wooden roller coaster at Coney Island—makes me want to LET GO of the freakin’ cart and LET it “run away” momentarily.

Thanks, you nameless RETARD; I hope your legs grow together!

Jest in Peace

Lots o’ dyin’ goin’ on in 2014—year ain’t over yet neither! Peggy & I got to talking about our eminent demises yesterday (Happy Holidays, right?)—we both agreed that cremation following organ donation (not that ANY-body would want ANY of my already-overused organs, IMHO) is each of our respective venues of choice.

Not that I expect my own “checkout” to elicit much more than a ripple in the force—”Did you hear? Dick Jones bought the farm today; hey—where you wanna go for lunch?” is what I expect to hear from The Great Beyond. All I ask for is a simple “Jest In Peace” proclamation from my small, semi-loyal following—what MORE could a cunning linguist ASK for, I wanna know?

A Young Dick Jones

My sister recently reminded me of this incident that occurred when I was ~5 years old. She had a horse at the time, and asked me if I wanted to go along with her to the blacksmith’s shop to get him shod (she is 18 years older than me). I didn’t know what “shod” meant, so I figgered I oughtta go along for the ride and see what was gonna happen to the horse, me being a naturally inquisitive kid.

We pull up to the blacksmith/horse-shoe’r dude’s place out in the country—he had a barn/shop with two large barn doors that were wide open at the time, so Sis backed the truck/trailer up and I lept out and scurried inside for a look-see.

The blacksmith dude had (apparently) JUST finished hammering out a set of shoes in anticipation of our arrival—I espied four of them hanging up on a long straight rod next to the blacksmith’s anvil and workbench.

I had to see ’em, so I dashed over to the rack and, before he could utter a word of warning or move to stop me, I picked one of the shoes up off the bar and IMMEDIATELY put it back down.

He chuckled and said: “Hot, aren’t they?”

“Nah—it just doesn’t take long to look at a horseshoe.”

Invite From A Neighbor

“Would you be, could you be—my neighbor?” So I’m outside the casa this afternoon, picking up some yard detritus after the last two days’ wind & rain that blew through SoCal, when one of my neighbors sees me and comes over to introduce himself; us having only lived here for a few months.

We chat for a few minutes, trade a few laughs at some politicians’ expense, and then he says to me: “Hey, ya’ know what? I’m gonna have a little “get together” this evening over at my house—you oughtta swing by!” “O.K.”, says I.

“I gotta warn you though, my parties are known to get a little “wild”—there WILL be some drinking going on there.” “Hell, I got no problem with THAT, neighbor”, I tell him.

“That’s good”, he says; we both laugh a bit. “And another thing I gotta warn you about—there could be some pot-smoking happening.” “That don’t confront me neither” I tells him.

“Bully!” he replies. “And you know, there might be some swearing and loud music happenin’ too.” “Sounds like MY kinda party!” I reassure him; we both laugh again…

Then he pulls in close to me and lowers his voice a bit—”Now, with all this drinking, smoking, swearing, and loud music ’til all hours, there COULD end up being some FUCKIN’ goin’ on too”—at this point, he pauses tentatively.

“Well hell—whatever gets you through the night” I say. “I’ll bring some h’ors d’euvres; how many people do you expect?” I ask. “Oh, it’ll just be the two of us” as he walks away…

“You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.” Wonder what I should wear…