The Father and Son "Talk"

There are some things a man must do when his son reaches the right age. Traditions that reach beyond class and background. The first fishing trip. Changing oil together for the first time. Showing him how to defend himself in the garage with a heavy bag, or how to build a campfire that will burn slowly for hours. These are the rituals inherent to the father and son bond, universal in their pull. So it was with a weighty sense of responsibility that I realized last night it was finally time for 'the Talk'.

My son is now eight, though to look at him you'd think ten. I'm quite proud of him, and he's a bright little fellow. But he's very curious, and I've overheard him asking questions lately. I decided long ago I was not going to let him figure out things on his own, or worse yet from his friends like so many of us did. The time was right, and he was ready even if I thought I wasn't.

I told the wife we men would be needing some privacy that evening, and called him into the living room by my side. Pouring myself a single malt to steady my nerves I sat him down. His eyes were eager and inquisitive, wanting to know what was so important. He looked nervous so I told him he wasn't in trouble, which seemed to set him at ease. “What I'm going to tell you about requires responsibility", I told him. "You're not ready for it yet, but someday you will be.” I thought back to when I first learned. I could remember my cousin showing me how to do it like it was yesterday.

So I took a deep breath, leaned back, and showed him how to light a proper match fart. The hot burst of flame climbing my jeans was impressive, and I thanked the stars I had enjoyed the beans and rice for lunch that day. As predicted his expression was that of shocked amazement, as a whole new realm of juvenile whimsy had just been opened to him. The room reeked of burnt methane and scorched Levis.

Later that evening, after we had caught our breath from the laughter and wiped the joyous tears from our eyes, I took him out for ice cream at Dairy Queen. For the first time I let him order for himself. A mother and daughter sat at the bench across from us, we guessed discussing the daintinesses the fairer sex normally discusses. We knowingly winked at each other from behind our hot fudge sundaes, each feeling just a little older and wiser, and living in a world they would never know.

Limbaugh Blasts Obama's First 100 Minutes

WASHINGTON- Rush Limbaugh on Tuesday lambasted newly sworn-in President Obama's performance thus far. The political pundit and self-anointed king of conservative talk radio, Limbaugh dismissed the first crucial 100 minutes of Obama's presidency as totally wasted.

“We've got terrorists at our doorstep, the economy in steep decline, and what does he do his first two and a half hours? I'll tell you what he did. He watched parades. He shook hands. He attended a fancy luncheon and enjoyed some ballroom dancing. Hell, you were hard pressed to find him not being lauded with music or waving to his brainwashed zombies at some point all day!”

Limbaugh went on to complain about the President's tie, the First Lady's choice of dress and the order in which the Cabinet was seated. “Seating the Secretary of Defense behind the Secretary of Interior? See people, this is what I meant when I told you our little friend here is soft on defense. This is an obvious snub to all righteous men in uniform! He wouldn't know a First Sergeant from a Sergeant at Arms.”

After spending another hour ridiculing topics ranging from the Obama children's puppy to the choice of entertainment for the Inaugural Balls, the talk show host embarked on an even darker and more controversial tack. “And I hate to say it folks, hate to be the one to make scary predictions, but has anyone looked at the Dow today? Since the Chosen One took office at noon, it's tanked more than 130 points! Not to be alarmist folks, but at that rate, and given my rough calculations, the Dow Jones Industrial should reach zero within just 12 weeks.”

After trying to reassure his listeners that they most likely have several months before the Apocalypse swallows them and their families whole into a whirlpool of fire, Limbaugh spent the remainder of his show waxing poetic about his childhood, his own mortality, and how much he would miss boating, cigars, and OxyContin.

Madoff Accused of Smuggling Valuables out in Dog's Rectum

NEW YORK- Federal prosecutors were frustrated a third time today when a US Circuit Judge denied a request that bail for Bernard Madoff be revoked. At issue was a report that the accused fraud had recently been smuggling valuables out of his luxury penthouse in the rectum of the Madoff family poodle, Murray.

Madoff's mail is already being searched in response to his sending more than a million dollars worth of jewelry and other valuables to friends and relatives over the holidays. The shocking new allegations originated after an FBI agent spotted an unidentified man in a black hat and suit scooping up the feces of the animal following one of Mr. Madoff's daily walks in the Upper East Side. After swiping the pile into a brown paper bag with his bare hands, the man reportedly climbed into a limousine and sped away.

Madoff described the accusation as “pure nonsense”. Madoff's lawyer Ira Sorkin refuted the charge, complaining to the judge “If my client had left the feces on the sidewalk he would have faced a citation for littering. And now you're saying it's improper to have his pet defecate in a prearranged location and have said excreta spirited away to a private office where it can be safely disposed of? What choice are you giving him?”

The most damning evidence came when the defense was confronted with a gold coin and a 2.4 karat diamond that had been unearthed from a pile of Murray's feces. The items valued at more than $30,000 were recovered by undercover officers in an attempted sting. Investigators wouldn't say if they believed the animal had been fed the valuables or if they had been forcibly inserted into the distraught beast.

Madoff explained that the offending gem may have fallen from one of his wife's house slippers, as has happened several times in the past. “That darned Murray just loves to gobble up anything he finds on the kitchen floor, the little scamp.” Asked to explain the one ounce Krugerrand, Madoff shrugged, with his lawyer arguing it could have come from anywhere, possibly already lying on the sidewalk when Murray “did his business”.

Judge Paymore was inclined to agree, apologizing to the inconvenienced Madoff and ruling that the defendant could remain free on the condition the Madoffs be provided the services of a dog walker, to be paid for by the city.

I Had a Golden Ticket

Most of my trips to the mailbox are less than memorable. The ritual usually coughs up little more than a bill, an appointment reminder from the dentist, coupon for something like rug cleaning or a Chinese restaurant, the occasional Have-You-Seen-This-Child. Another bill. But last week I had some excitement. Not to give away the ending, but it was short-lived. It arrived in a large manila envelope, with a Presidential insignia.

I've gotten a few letters from the White House over the years, mainly boiler plate responses to my fruitless rabble rousing. Dear Sir, thank you for your letter regarding issue X, we hope that some day in the future you will see that our efforts at allowing market forces to reduce the demand for, blah blah blah. This was different. On heavy card stock, in flowing calligraphy below a handsome and expensive looking gold embossed seal, was an invitation to the Inauguration.

At first confusion reined. Then some gears, some smoke, and wide eyes. A scene from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory played out, with me playing the part of Grandpa Joe jumping and hooting like an old man transformed into a little boy. Somehow, I was in. But how? A selected random donor? Maybe someone got a kick out of my randomobamalie.com site? Who cares, I'm somebody now! How would I get there with just two weeks notice? Surely flights were gone by this time. Or as pricey as the last Huey out of Saigon. A lot can go through your head in a matter of seconds. These were but minor details. I would make it happen.

By the time I got back to the front door I noticed something else inside the envelope. Two other somethings. The first was a letter from the Presidential Inaugural Committee. I carefully parsed the letter. One phrase stuck out like a teasing child's tongue:

“This commemorative invitation invites your presence at any of the public events in what will be the most open and accessible Inauguration in American history.”

An invitation to all public events, an oxymoron if I'd ever heard one. Cue the sound of a deflating balloon. I was nobody once more. A quick spin with Mr Google confirmed my fears. I had basically been spammed. ABC news even had a video. One million of the buggers had been printed up. So yes, Team Change may have penned this scroll, but in essence I had just received a high quality wall hanging.

The second item went in for the kill, pouring salt into my wounded pride. It was a small sales flier for all things Prez, hawking everything but boxer shorts. Some huckster trying to cash in on the Obama Brand before the big day came. Because after that he would be just another bigwig on the shiny hill, hogtied by cold, hard realities. At that strike of noon Tuesday, the Cinderella story would end. The dance would be over, transforming him from a prince back to a pumpkin. Time to scrub the floors and clean out the fireplaces. So yes, it makes perfect sense for some shyster to try to sell as many baubles and trinkets he can while the getting is good.

I feel for someone with less discerning logic toting this document all the way to the main event, only to be told they'd have a better view from their Zenith as it wasn't getting them closer than any other Tom, Dick, and Harry standing out there in the January wind. Apart from not having any identifying numbers or codes like an actual ticket, the thing looks damned official. No, this thing was official. Still just a collector's item mind you, granting no privilege. Nothing of true worth, just something for the zealous to mount in the den. It was a commemorative freebie printed up like its predecessors had been since way back when.

But somewhere along the line a decision had been made to include a catalog for pillows and champagne glasses emblazoned with an Inaugural seal. That's just bad pool in my book.

This brought a more fiendish possibility to mind. Was the pimping of the President to never stop? Would it now be policy? CNN posting snapshots of cabinet members wearing “Change” t-shirts to their softball games. I imagined years of press conferences in which Barack knick-knacks were subtlety plugged. A Barack-licensed Nike or Lexus couldn't be far behind. The Nobama crowd which poo-pooed the star treatment were seeming to have a point. On the other hand, maybe the proceeds could be used to offset the deficit. In the end, all I could do in protest was to purchase my commemorative Obama speedos elsewhere. Hopefully they arrive in time.

Best of luck to our new Commander, God knows he can use it. And to our departing George, best of luck with the whole "history will judge me" thing. Believe me, it will.

Image of Elvis Appears on Virgin Mary

GUADALUPE, MEXICO- Hundreds of music fans and sightseers flocked to the town of Guadalupe this week as reports poured in of a divine image. On the morning after Christmas, as he was opening his Church of the Exalted Savior for what he thought was just another day of worship, Padre Jose Santiago was shocked by what he found. On the chapel's hundred year old statue of the Virgin Mary was an inexplicable image of Elvis Presley.

Ever since the discovery, music buffs from locales as distant as Tokyo and London have been clamoring for a look at the miracle. The interior of the small chapel was filled with tourists all weekend, with only a handful of regular local churchgoers trying to ignore the distractions taking place in the rear of the sanctuary. By New Year's, there was an hour's wait to see the miracle, with vendors hawking flowers and baked goods to the line of eager pilgrims.

The floor of the church is fast growing cluttered, with visitors leaving mounds of velvet paintings, records and lovingly wrapped burgers at the foot of the statue each night.

“They keep coming and coming” said local townswoman Maria DelSancho. “I have never seen such a zealous group. They are odd”, referring to the mid-western housewives and families clad in Hawaiian shirts and gauche patterns not indigenous to the area. Asked if she thought the image was sacrilegious, Ms. DelSancho like most others asked simply shrugged, admitting through her translator “it is Elvis after all”.

A team of tweed-clad inspectors from Memphis were still unable to ascertain how this incredible image of the King appeared on the cheek of the Mother. “It's our job,” said Miles Browman of the Institute of Elvis Studies. “Every few months there's a spotting and we need to investigate to disprove them. We don't usually see a late Elvis like this.” Mr. Browman's team was at a loss to explain away the image of a heavyset Mr. Presley sleeping on the Virgin Mother's cheek. “Usually it turns out to be someone looking for attention. A waitress in Des Moines scorches a piece of toast to look like a scene from Jailhouse Rock, that sort of thing. But this...”

A visibly shaken IES director Browman wouldn't admit if he still thought the image was a fake, but upon leaving, a King-spotter says he saw the man drop a red rose at the feet of the statue, then perform a barely perceptible gig before gathering his test samples and running off.