Trump's State of the Union Address

We thought he would breath fire on the crowded Senate seats;

Turning ev’rybody’s faces redder than boiled beets.

We thought he would spout nonsense worse than Alice ever heard;

Mixing fact and fiction till they both came out all blurred.

We thought his narrow-mindedness would bollix up the works;

Instead he kept it low key with his ordinary quirks.

The fact is that he really wasn’t all that pestilential;

In fact he almost acted like he could be presidential!

Tim Holst Cooks a Meal

Tim Holst was a man of action. When I worked with him on Ringling he was never one for ‘pussy-footing around.’ Having served as an LDS missionary in Sweden prior to joining clown alley, he knew the difference between right and wrong -- and acted accordingly.

The ‘Iron Lung’ train car where the First of Mays were holed up during the season attracted a lot of unwanted attention from roustabouts and Iron Curtain cretins who had consumed too much beer during outdoor picnics when the train was parked in a salubrious spot. After downing a sixpack of lager, the more jocular would weave their hazy way over to our train car to relieve themselves against its burnished aluminum side. They thought this was a real knee slapper. This was an unappreciated use of our home away from home. We complained to Performance Director Charlie Baumann about it, but his only response was:

“I don’t babysit clowns. Geh weg!”

So Holst took matters into his own hands. One starry night, as the beer bottles clinked in time with the crickets, he climbed up onto the roof of the Iron Lung with a long green hose attached to a trainyard spigot. My job was to act as lookout and be the spigot turner. Whenever a waterlogged culprit hove into view I gave Holst the high sign and turned on the spigot. Just as the miscreant was about to unload he was shattered with a spray much more forceful than his own. The would-be desecrator of our hearth and home on wheels would retreat, sopping wet and cursing. We did this two nights in a row and voila!, problem solved. Revelers took their bursting bladders elsewhere.

Then there was the matter of asphyxiation in clown alley. Baumann would stalk through each building prior to set up and mark off the men’s dressing room, the lady’s dressing room, the star’s dressing rooms, and clown alley. Usually we had plenty of open space around us, but occasionally we had to pile into a small conference room or some such sardine can. The minute they came in, the smokers would light up and puff away contentedly until the air was unbreathable for us non-smokers. And that included Holst as well as myself. It was unbearable. But again, appeals to Baumann proved fruitless, especially since he always had a Winston going between his own beefy fingers. Holst’s pointed comments to me, in a stentorian voice that carried for miles, about the rudeness of inconsiderate smokers, also went unheeded in clown alley.

Finally Holst went to publicity promoter Art Ricker with an idea. Why not do a Great Clown Alley Smokeout? The publicity would be immense. Ricker, who sucked on putrid stogies like they were pickles, thought it a great idea. Clown alley would go smoke-free -- and not just in one town, but in every town hereafter! No ifs, ands . . . or butts was the motto he coined for this publicity stunt, which attracted a lot of media attention for the next dozen cities. Clown alley had to go cold turkey, or face a stiff fine that came directly out of the backslider’s paycheck. The misery this engendered was epic, but it kept the alley’s air breathable -- at least for the next several weeks. I don’t know why this particular publicity ruse was eventually abandoned, but I suspect that the worst nicotine fiends banded together and bribed Ricker to rescind the ban. But after that the smokers were a mite more considerate, usually practicing their evil habit outside of the alley.

One memorable evening after the last show was done Holst and I and a couple of other joeys went across the street from the train to an owl wagon that was open all night. We were sick of pie car fare, and longed for steaks smothered in onions, potatoes au gratin, and apple pie ala mode. The place was brightly lit but barely inhabited. After we sat down we waited a good ten minutes for the horse-faced waitress to come over and take our order. When she remained immobile on her counter stool Holst went over to see about some grub. She informed him the cook had gone down the road a piece for his own dinner. He never ate at the owl wagon. He’d be back in a hour or so.

When informed of this I was all for trooping back to the pie car for whatever we could get, rather than face starvation through the night. But Holst had other ideas. He briskly walked behind the counter, tied on a stained white apron, surveyed the available comestibles, and began cooking up a storm. The waitress, who looked like she was trying out for a part in a Roger Corman zombie film, started to squawk -- but Holst bought her silence with money gathered from all of us. He made us scrambled eggs, grilled cheese sandwiches, ham steaks, home fries with lots of onions and green peppers, hamburger steaks the size of manhole covers, and grilled up a mess of fresh catfish fillets that the waitress said had been caught just a few hours ago. He warmed up a complete deep dish apple pie in the oven, and then smothered it with gobs of vanilla ice cream and whipped cream. We ate like condemned felons having their last meal and could barely wedge ourselves out of the booth when we were done.

But Holst was still not done. Looking keenly at the homely waitress, who had crow’s feet like the Nile Delta and enormous bags under her eyes, he discerned that she alone would be stuck doing up the dishes. So he commandeered us to run back and wash up the pots and pans and plates and utensils lickety-split before going back to the train. That tired waitress looked truly grateful for our Holst-induced thoughtfulness.

We left just as the regular cook came back from his repast. The waitress rang us up as he looked on in cretinous wonder. Since we had already ponied up the cash, she just dumped it into the cash register, extracting a generous amount for her tip, and waved warmly at us as we left.

They oughta do a superhero comic book about Tim Holst, is what I think.

Mostafa el-Abbadi

The ancients knew that Egypt was a treasure house of grain

And plundered it or bought it for their hungry stomach’s gain.

It also housed the Library in all the world the best,

Which burned completely when great Caesar beat upon his breast.

Mostafa el-Abbadi spent his life to resurrect

This place where scholars could recline and safely genuflect.

Snohetta built it for him, at a cost to make jaws drop,

But it was rather careless and included a gift shop.

Yet when the heads of state assembled to rededicate

This temple of pure knowledge it was Abbadi’s mournful fate

Not to be invited, but be snubbed by politicians

Who did not take too kindly to his noble admonitions.

A scholar may move mountains to bring wisdom once again

But he should not expect the lauds of petty, venal men.

Ryan Zinke

Ryan thinks he’s Teddy, come to save the West again;

Saving it for critters, injuns, and chivalrous oilmen.

He wants that pesky coal dug up, deported to the East,

And burned up till it ain’t a threat to man nor gal nor beast.

He sure will keep Interior a safe and honest place

Where wimmin folk can sit and rock and crochet plenty lace!

The Subway Sandwich

The chicken in a Subway sub apparently is thin;

It’s made with lots of fillers as a way our hearts to win.

For who wants lots of fowl flesh in their sandwich after all?

Too much meat ain’t good for you, the experts always bawl!

In fact the bread is bad for you, and so are wilted veggies.

It gives your little tummy the equivalent of wedgies.

I’m all for eating healthy, and in moderation too.

I think the safest bet is sticking to straight Elmer’s Glue!

The Fraud That Killed My Son

For some time now I have wanted to put down in writing my feelings about alternative medicine and the many diet theories that I have been encouraged to try by people I know are kindly disposed towards me.  In doing so, I want to emphasize that I do not wish to mock or belittle other people’s beliefs and experiences.  My purpose in writing this is simply to let everyone know how I feel about the subject, and why.

One of the many reasons my wife Amy divorced me was because she came to believe fervently in alternative medicine and diet plans, while I did not.  In our early years of marriage we spent an inordinate amount of money on things like Shaklee vitamins and other so-called nutritional supplements.  Over the years I came to deeply resent the large expenditures, which could have been used so much more usefully in clothing, feeding and housing our growing family, not to mention putting income aside for a rainy day.  But perhaps that is merely the 20-20 vision of hindsight. The point is that I came to utterly reject alternative, and, to me, unproven dietary supplements, while Amy came to believe, and rely, on them more and more.  I do not wish to put words in her mouth, but it seemed to me, at the time, that she treated these alternative medicine theories as revelations, while I treated them as merely commercial enterprises out to mulct the credulous. Looking back, I think I can safely say we were both too extreme in our opinions.

At this point I wish to state that I do believe that men like Louie Pasteur, Joseph Lister, Alexander Fleming, and many others were and are most definitely inspired by God to bring forth medical advances to prolong and ease our mortal existence. These men and women used rigorous and well-defined scientific techniques, which took months, sometimes years, to complete before announcing their discoveries to the world, and in most cases they then gave these discoveries to the world for free, unconcerned with any sort of marketing schemes or personal aggrandizement.  I honor them and the part their work plays in mainstream medicine today.

I also realize that Big Pharma is far from guiltless when it comes to gouging consumers with outrageous prices for necessary medications. But their crime is simple usury, not blatant forgery. 

 I would also mention that I believe in the power of God to bless and relieve his children of disease and pain, through blessings given by His authorized priesthood holders. 

What I DO NOT believe in is relying solely on priesthood blessings, or anything else outside of mainstream Western medicine, when there is a medical emergency or crisis and regular medical care is available nearby.

Several months after the divorce our son Irvin became gravely ill, to the point where he lapsed into a coma and started to turn blue from oxygen starvation.  I was no longer living in the same state as Amy and our children, so I only heard about this by telephone. Amy informed me she had had the Elders over to bless Irvin and she was treating him with some homeopathic remedies.  I begged her to take him into the Emergency Room.  She did not wish to do so at first, but finally yielded to my long-distance entreaties.  But it was too late.  Our little Irvin died in a diabetic coma that night.

I have struggled over the years, since then, to forgive both Amy and myself for the death of our dear little boy.  It has been very hard for me, as I’m sure it has been for Amy.  I am now at the point where I can say with sincerity “Let God judge between me and thee” (Samuel 24: 15) and leave Irvin’s death with God, who has promised to one day wipe away all tears. 

But I cannot, and will not, stop thinking that if Irvin had been taken to a regular doctor in time, instead of being fed some homeopathic nostrum, he might still be alive today.  Therefore, I want nothing to do with alternative medicines and diets that are not part of a competent and licensed medical doctor’s prescription and advice. 

I have very strong feelings on this subject, and I am sorry if I have ever offended anyone in any way for rebuffing their efforts to help me with their own diets and nutritional supplements. But anecdotal evidence is not admissible in a court of law, and I don't admit it is anything scientific either. 

Please understand – there is a little boy laid in the cold ground of a graveyard in Pleasant Grove, Utah, who I feel does not belong there, and would not be there except for a misplaced belief in something that was powerless to save him from death.

That is why I am so strongly opposed to MLM companies and homeopathic charlatans. How many lives have they sacrificed on the altar of money grubbing and sloppy fairy tale thinking? I believe it is in the tens of thousands. 

  

Ahmed Fahour

Down in old Canberra they do like to tell the tale

Of Ahmed Fahour’s fortune from delivering the mail.

He made out like a bandit with a salary so large

They had to float it to the bank inside a gravel barge.

Malcolm Turnbull told him he was making too much dough

And back to Lebanon he would quite gladly see him go.

So Ahmed quit the Post Office and now spends all his days

On the beach in Darwin with the other castaways.

Thank you, Keith Holt

To the great readers who like my mini-memoir “What Happened to JoJo” I want say May All Your Days Be Circus Days!

Keith Holt

Clark Kent

Robert E. Handley

Chris Twiford

Mike Weakley

Leo Acton

Gabriel Romero Sr.

Andrew Fronczak

Sandy Weber

Mike Johnson

Regina Wollrabe

Fred Baisch

Kenneth L Stallings

Mark Riddell

“You are the wind beneath my box kite”

Bill O'Reilly

O’Reilly gets his experts from a spectrum that’s so broad

It’s more than just stupendous -- you might even call it fraud.

He’s looking for an adept or a doyen who agrees

With his point of view (and never mind about the fees.)

I’m pretty sure that talking heads no longer fit our needs --

Especially when hollow, like a gourd with dried up seeds.

What Happened to JoJo

JoJo the Dog Eared Boy worked as our gofer in clown alley for several months. As noted in earlier entries of this saga, he was rather credulous and held no threat for Albert Einstein. Like so many marginal personalities in this venal world we inhabit, he was constantly ignored, taken for granted, or put upon. Swede Johnson once sent him out for a can of “fat-free lard.” He was gone for two days, and when he returned he mournfully confessed to Swede that stores and pantries in the tri-state area were completely out of that mythical substance. I am sorry to say that I was not immune to such thoughtless raillery either. One day I gave him a dollar to go buy me a box of powdered water so I could make Tang while sitting at my trunk. Even his slo mo thought process caught a whiff of ripe baloney from my request; he wrinkled his nose quizzically, but then shrugged and went out. He came back with a can of Carnation Evaporated Milk.

“It’s the best I could do for a dollar” he told me while he counted change back. “I like Tang and milk; don’t you? Huh, dontcha?”

JoJo also functioned as a part-time dresser. Prince Paul did a come in gag with Murray Horowitz in which Prince was dressed as a mouse and Horowitz was dressed as a cat with a gigantic mousetrap ready to snap shut on Prince. After various thrusts and feints Prince managed to snap the trap shut on Horowitz's tail, and then they both ran off. The mouse and cat costumes were ancient relics made of dyed velvet and papier mache. They weighed a ton and were as cumbersome as deep sea diving suits, circa Jules Verne. Prince promised JoJo five dollars a week to help them get in and out of the costumes. JoJo faithfully helped them in and out, but at the end of each week Prince would say “Listen, boychick, I’m a little short this week.” Then he’d wait for JoJo to laugh (since Prince was a true dwarf.) JoJo never even cracked a smile. Shaking his head wearily, Prince would continue: “I can’t pay you this week, but I’ll make it up to you on Good Friday with a fish dinner.” JoJo nodded cheerfully and went about his other business. This was in the middle of July.

When Chico realized what an ideal patsy JoJo was, he dusted off the old Abbott & Costello routines.

When JoJo was flush with cash due to his hard work and complaisant ways, Chico would rush up to him and demand: “Quick, JoJo, lemme have two tens for a five!” JoJo would comply, and never seemed to catch on.

Or Chico would sidle up to him with a friendly smile and say “Pick a number from one to ten, JoJo.” JoJo would pick a number and Chico would sadly shake his head: “Sorry, JoJo -- that was the wrong number. You owe me a dollar.” JoJo would humbly pay up, wondering out loud why he was so bad at this game.

Many of the arenas we played had freight elevators which could be operated automatically from a distance with a switch attached to a long electric cable. Whenever such an elevator was close to clown alley, the switch was appropriated by Chico, Roofus T. Goofus, or myself, and the fun would begin. At JoJo’s expense. Seeing him ambling along, I’d toss a piece of wadded up paper into the freight elevator and ask him to go get it for me please. Once he was inside the elevator I’d squeeze the button -- shutting the doors on him -- and then send him up to the roof. It always took him a while to figure out how to work the elevator to bring him back down.

“The darn thing went haywire on me” he’d say when he finally escaped. “Went right to the roof. The roof!”

But it finally came to pass that on a warm day in September in Saint Louis we all got our comeuppance.

The matinee was over and JoJo had just come back with several orders of burgers and fries from a place down the street called Happy Clown Hamburgers. They were giving clown alley a significant discount for permission to tape a sign in their window reading: “WE SERVE THE BEST BURGERS TO THE BEST CLOWNS AT RINGLING BROTHERS!”

The alley was unusually quiet that afternoon. Dougie was not playing his trumpet; Kochmanski’s dog Kropka was not barking incessantly to be let out to pee; Horowitz was not arguing sports with anyone; and Prince Paul was dozing quietly on top of his clown trunk. So the ensuing dialogue was heard by all of dumbfounded clown alley.

A well-dressed middle-aged couple timidly poked their heads into clown alley to ask if there was a Joseph Frantze there.

“Nobody by that name here. Sorry” Holst took it upon himself to reply.

“He sometimes goes by his nickname, JoJo” the woman said softly.

“Hey JoJo” Holst called across the alley to the individual in question. “Someone here to see you! Come into the alley, folks. Everybody’s dressed decent.”

When JoJo reached the couple the woman pounced on him with an affectionate half-nelson.

“Joseph! Joseph! Don’t you remember me? I’m your Aunt Mabel!”

“Joseph” the man said with quiet authority. “Come out of this place so we can talk.” He placed very audible and disapproving quotation marks around the words ‘this place.’

I won’t draw out the suspense. Joseph Frantze, JoJo the Dog Eared Boy to clown alley, was a scion of the Anheuser family. His wandering fancies had cut him off from communications with his loving, and very rich, family -- so they hired a detective agency to track him down. He was now old enough to come into his trust fund, set up when he was an infant. And it was a big one. Clown alley heard the figure quoted, and clown alley nearly had kittens.

All JoJo seemed capable of saying in response to this revelation was “Hot jiggers!”

Eventually alerted to JoJo’s sudden change in fortune, Prince jumped off his trunk, pulled a wad of greenbacks out of his civilian pants, and raced out the alley roaring “Hey JoJo, bubala! I got your Good Friday backpay right here! A bonus, too! Where the hell is he?”

But JoJo was gone -- quickly whisked away by his aunt and uncle on a magic carpet of wealth and privilege, never to be seen again by clown alley. He didn’t stop to bid us farewell or to thank us, or to spread a little mazuma around -- and truly, why would he? We treated him like dregs and dross. Cozened him. Checked his basic dignity as a human being at every turn. By rights he should have hired a gang of plug uglies to come beat us all up. But he just left. And clown alley soon forgot all about him. Contract time was coming up and several new showgirls had been hired to augment the cast for the upcoming Chicago date. They needed some serious ‘chaperoning.’  

But I remembered JoJo, especially whenever I attended Sunday School class in the coming years and the teacher used Hebrews 13:2 as their text: “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”