Does Trump Have Tourette’s?

Let me say this right up front – Dick Jones is pretty much “apolitical”, using the analogy that “Politics is like picking the leper with the most fingers to make your BBQ sandwich – no matter WHICH choice you make, you’re gonna be eating something that you didn’t ask for and aren’t gonna like…”

Having said that, I must raise the query – in fact strongly SUSPECT – that Donald Trump most certainly has secret/undiagnosed Tourette’s Syndrome; as proof, here’s a sentence lifted from the Wikipedia entry: “Tourette’s was once considered a rare and bizarre syndrome, most often associated with the exclamation of obscene words or socially inappropriate and derogatory remarks (coprolalia)…”

Case Closed – Pay the Bailiff on your way out of the courtroom…


The Clumsy Quotient

In my best Andy Rooney half-in-the-bag voice: “Have ya’ ever noticed…”

The “noticing in question” is yet another upsetting/annoying/embarrassing thing about myownself, as I sit poised on the cusp of SIXTY FUCKIN’ YEARS OLD – my “Clumsy Quotient” is undeniably going up. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”, you ask? Discounting my predominant left-handedness, I’m referring to the number of numbnuts things that I manage to do/undo during the course of an average day, DESPITE me upping my “concentration game” to NOT do something clumsy. Without further ado, here’s my average day’s clumsy quotient:

Despite my VERY best efforts NOT to, I invariably spill some Whey Low (my sugar substitute – you should check it out!) outside the parameters of my morning coffee cup at least 3 days/week; nothing like a first-thing-in-the-morning “MORON!” self-proclamation before my AM cuppa.

  • Then, before I’ve even tried to negotiate the treacherous five step walk from our coffee station to my recliner and laptop, where I park it to review my 1-2 REAL emails and delete my 152 fuckin’ SPAM emails (despite my continuous vigilance to “Unsubscribe” from ~25 websites EVERY fuckin’ day, the Gods Of The Interweb CONTINUE to bombard me with SPAM from websites I’ve never even HEARD of, let alone visited – “Asian Transsexual Gay Midgets Want YOUR Man Relish!” – What. The. FUCK?!), I more often than not manage to spill some coffee through the simple act of STIRRING the sweetener into the coffee – Can a MORON also be RETARDED I wanna know?
  • Then there’s the daily “dividing up of the vitamins/minerals” into my AM and PM cups. Not a SINGLE DAY goes by when I don’t “miss” one or the other of said shot-glass sized cups when doling out my 15 or so pills, causing me to swipe at the air where the errant vitamin WAS on its gravity-induced fall to the floor, where it then rolls under one of the two cat bowls – FUCKTARD! I’m considering just throwing them ALL onto the floor straightaway, then putting the two cups on the floor and dispensing them from THERE…
  • The twice daily “stirring of the Metamucil” provides me with two MORE opportunities to hone my fumble-fingerness. Don’t wipe THAT up tout de suite, and it bonds like Sakrete onto the granite countertop – how could this POSSIBLY be good for me I’m wondering…
  • Let’s not forget the twice weekly laundry routine, where I seem OBLIGED to drop a pair of u-trou or a washcloth in-between the washer and the dryer, or even better, from the dryer to the laundry basket – landing on the FILTHY laundry room floor; back in the dirty clothes hamper THAT’LL go, you mongoloid idiot! (Exception: If it’s a pair of Peggy’s u-trou, I just wipe it off and put it into the laundry basket – “What she doesn’t know” and all…)
  • Unloading the dishwasher – yet ANOTHER opportunity for Dick Jones to SHINE – “Drop that spoon, Stew-pit!” Back in the dishwasher it goes – Do not pass Go, do not collect $200…
  • I must also admit to the virtually daily ritual of dribbling SOME sort of food, butter, gravy, salsa verde, food-induced drool, or beverage onto my shirt – Please feel free to mail Dick Jones a lobster bib, care of this station…
  • Finally, Dick Jones’ latest “tip o’ the hat” to senility started this very week – I seem to be hell-bent on putting my u-trou on inside-out every morning. Though I would LIKE to give myself a little break on this one, since it occurs BEFORE my morning cuppa and in total darkness, I’m troubled – how long EXACTLY before I start putting them on inside-out AND backwards I wanna know?

As even the most cursory extrapolation of this behavior would suggest, my “Golden Years” promise to be colored with “bowel mistakes” – aka “The assumed fart that became an inside-out and backwards underwear-filling SHITE”, and “piss errors” – aka “I THOUGHT that I had emptied my bladder before I pulled up my inside-out and backwards underwear” – so why is my recliner wet?

The future’s so bright, I gotta wear cataract-protecting shades, Kids…


Phone number PLEASE!

Another day, another Dick Jones self-query: Am I IN a foreign country I wanna know?

Now, I already know that I am “somebody”. I used to think that I was a nobody, but then I noticed that, every day before Peggy drove off to work, she left a list of stuff that needed to be done that day by “somebody”; as in: “Somebody needs to pick up my dry cleaning, and somebody needs to find a place to get these slacks hemmed for me by Wednesday…” – and that “somebody” was ALWAYS yours truly!

Anyway, “somebody” needed to get the aforementioned dress slacks hemmed for Peggy by Wednesday, so I jump into the wheeled conveyance and drive down to my usual dry cleaners, remembering the “Alterations” signage in his window.

I wait in line (I guess a whole lotta people spill shit on themselves over the weekend), idly watching people dropping off their rags to be dry-cleaned. Since I’m the fourth moron back in line, with as many morons behind me, I notice that the Pakistani(?) owner, who sounds like he’s been in the US of A for all of about 9 days, begins every exchange with the query “Phone Number”? He then types said number into his magic moh-chine, and up comes the information that he wants.

Now – I KNOW that MY phone number resides in his magic moh-chine, but that’s not why I’m there; I’m there to find out if one of his unseen alteration minions can hem these slacks in ONE day. My turn comes, I put the slacks on the counter, and I begin to speak…

“Phone number”? He fairly SHOUTS at me, cutting me off before my second word has fallen outta my maw. I continue on with my hem question; exactly 3 words later, I hear – “PHONE NUMBER?!” I ignore his second request for my phone number, and get 3 more words into my query. “PHONE NUMBER!?” – this time with SO much irritation in his voice that EVERYONE behind me is looking at us (mostly him) uncomfortably.

“Oh, you want my PHONE NUMBER?! Do you have a pen and a piece of paper? I’ll write it down for you.” He looks at me a bit puzzled, but hands me a pen and a scrap of paper – I write slowly, in huge block letters FUCK-YOU. “There’s my phone number – how ’bout THAT?!”

“Scratch THIS fuckin’ mook offa my service provider list!” as I’m greeted with four separate smiles on my way out d’ah d’oh…

So I gets back into my car, oddly unruffled (Hey – it IS Monday), and drive exactly 1/2 mile up the road, to ANOTHER dry cleaning establishment. As I go inside, I see that THIS place is run by a Chinese woman. She gives me a nice smile, and of course – asks for my phone number. Apparently your phone number is the virtual “key to the castle” in the modern, English as a second or third language dry cleaning facility.

I wave off her request, and ask her if she can have these pants hemmed by Tuesday night. She says yes – after 5PM tomorrow, noting that they close at 6PM. “Great!” says I. “Phone number please?” She asks. O.K.; I’ll play – I give it to her. “You not in system” says she. “I KNOW!” says I, but I give her my phone number again S-L-O-W-L-Y. “You not in system” she says again; I feel my blood pressure begin to rise; I grind my teeth together and silently count to 10. Big smile – “Well, let’s get me in that magic system of yours, shall we?” “Name please.” I spell out my last name for her – “J, O, N, E, S.” – she gets flustrated.

I hand her my CA Driver’s license – she’s GOTTA be able to read, right? She looks at it, then types into HER magic box “RICHARD JAMES”, my first & middle names; “Welcome Richard James!” pops up on her magic box screen that is visible to the customer.

I unconsciously shift my testicles around in my u-trou, ’cause that’s what men DO when they are suddenly uncomfortable. “No, no, no – Richard is my first name, James is my MIDDLE name, and Jones is my LAST name – get me?” I then pull out a second ID, also with my full name on it – she looks at it with an equal degree of flummoxity. She starts typing into her magic box keyboard again, and up pops “Welcome James Jones Richard!”

“Do you have a pen and a piece of paper?”

Non-Consensual Sex…

…with farm animals will NOT be tolerated!

Now see? If this man had simply gotten a hoof-stamped letter of consent, maybe bought this poor animal some oats as they sat and watched a couple “Mr. Ed” reruns, and THEN had some non-roughhouse sex, this would never have happened. Hell, they might even still be friends…

In this particular case, Dick Jones suggests a more simple punishment – have the HORSE give this man some “payback sex” through an appropriate orifice. If this horse happened to be a mare, then enlist one of the horse’s male buddies to take care of bidness – Here here!

Yeah Doc – Gimme That EXTRA Shot Of Testosterone

…I’m a jack-boot Nazi, and I got a 13 year old girl who I gotta show who’s BOSS:

I sincerely hope that the ensuing lawsuits drive this muscle-headed MORON to suicide, and drive this department into bankruptcy. Oh yeah – let’s not forget about THIS show of testosterone-fueled power over this 19 year old kid – here’s wishing THIS cheesedick and his department a similar fate:

South Carolina – Gotta love it – NOT!

And looks like Dick Jones ain’t the only Rocket Scientist to figger this out – here’s an article from Police Chief magazine:


Now HERE’s an article that puts a slant towards the LEO supplementing his own (probably low) testosterone:

I think this article says it best – “Roid Rage”:

I mean – just LOOK at your “average” LEO today – when EXACTLY was the last time YOU saw one built like Barney Fife I wanna know?