Saturday, December 29, 2007

Blatant 80's Flashback

Land sakes, this song is STILL fully erect after all this time!

Friday, July 27, 2007

Don't Be A Pussy, U.S. of A - Part II

Do not fear the ice packs. Do not fear the cheeses.

Today’s Public Service Announcement was sponsored by the TSA.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Talking Smack

My Mac G4 is going to kick your Dell’s ass so hard, that your Dell is going to need an ass transplant.

My Mac will pull down the pants of any HP, in front of complete strangers, for free.

My Mac can run at least 50 mph, and pedals way faster than your IMB-compatible on training wheels.

My Mac can eat 675 chicken wings in less than one minute.

My Mac has karate-chopped through a cinderblock building and then defeated terrorists.

My Mac only eats the brains of bad people.

My Mac challenged your Momma to a roller derby contest and won.

My Mac has balls and a vagina. It is invincible.

You will never have my Mac.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Out Sick

Have you ever heard about summertime flu? It's horrible. I feel like a human juicer. When the shivering and body aches stop, I'm going to write something. In the meantime, please accept my apologies and enjoy this video by Suzanne Vega. It's called 99.9F°.


Friday, July 20, 2007


UPDATE: On Tuesday, I blogged about my lighter and flying. Today, it was announced that lighters will be permitted on flights , beginning August 4, 2007.

OK, so maybe I had nothing to do with it. Thank goodness common sense prevailed in the end.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Confession Time

I have a confession to make. When I fly, no one from the TSA has ever confiscated my lighter. I know that we are not supposed to fly with lighters but I stow mine in my purse or coat pocket. I always figure that if the TSA folks find it, they will take it. However, they never find it and I always arrive at my destination with my lighter.

I honestly don’t mean to get anyone in trouble, including myself. It seems to me, however, that if the TSA makes all sorts of rules about what we can and cannot do, they need to be honest about their capabilities. Are the TSA folks who smoke sympathizing with me, and letting me keep my lighter because it is clear that I am not an evildoer? Or, is it truer that their technology is not perfect and they are not properly trained to spot contraband? Keep these questions in mind the next time you watch TSA guards pat down little old ladies at the front of the line. Ask yourself this, who’s the bigger idiot – me with a lighter or them for embarrassing little old ladies?

I’m speaking up about this, because I know of many other smokers who have the same story as I do. We know that the rules are useless. If the TSA equipment and personnel can’t detect something as basic and simple as a lighter, how in the heck can they detect something more complex and sinister? The security alerts and restrictions on what a person can carry onto an airplane seem little more than hype designed to scare people. People who are afraid follow orders.

Bucking the system and defying the rules has taught me not to stress about flying and not to be intimidated by the TSA. They can make me remove my shoes, take away my carry-on coffee and make me throw away my make-up, but they can’t take my pride. I am no safer flying than I was post 9/11, and neither are you. Does this change anything? No. A free democracy comes with some risks, and I am willing to absorb those risks. To live without freedom and the risks associated with democracy means the terrorists have won. I will not be terrorized. Not by bad guys and certainly not by my government.

Friday, July 06, 2007

The Song About Olcott Beach

In 1973, King Harvest recorded a fun song about Olcott Beach, NY - my hometown. '73 was the year I started first grade. The band was living in a hotel at the end of my street for a while, called The Olcott Inn. The Inn is gone, and I think King Harvest disappeared shortly after this song emerged. Wherever they are, hope they're doing well.

I'm going to Olcott Beach today, and staying the week. This is the song about where I came from.

Tuesday, July 03, 2007

Cheney, Bush & Scooter: "Justice? We don't need no steenkin' justice!"

The Three Amigos


Hello God? It's me, Mojopo. Listen, this Bush Administration has got to go. If You can find the time to pitch in, please have George Bush show up on teevee naked (except for a cowboy hat). It would be very helpful if You can get him to spread his ass cheeks, crap on the American flag and then wipe up the aftermath with some of those precious yellow ribbons. Yes - dear Jesus - I understand that Bush has already done this figuratively, but the nation needs to see the real thing before they will put him and his vice president to the curb.

Time's a-wastin', oh Lord. Good day, sir, and Amen.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Poop On Kitty

I’m feeling political today. As George W. Bush’s Reign of Skank is beginning to wind down, why not take a look back at a book written about President Moron and his retarded family?

Today's takedown involves a terrible author and an even worse subject. Have you ever read The Family: The Real Story of the Bush Dynasty by Kitty Kelly? This book is a perfect storm of craptastic proportions. Kitty Kelly made a career out of writing horseshit unauthorized biographies about celebrities and powerful people. This particular book is especially awful because it's about the most hated man in the world. No - not Osama, silly. It's about our shitty president here in the U.S., and his inbred, filthy rich family. The only reason I’m bringing up this old news is because I honestly saw this book in the dumpster next to my apartment building yesterday.

Kitty Kelly, the author, is a breathless, smirking old bat. Kitty has that American way of looking matronly and country club fresh, even though she probably lives in her bathrobe most days and walks around with a bottle of gin in her claws. Kitty writes tell-all books and she likes to dig up dirt. Animals like to dig in the dirt, too, so they can make a hole to crap in.

Kitty's writing style is more or less the equivalent of literary excretion. The problem is, she wants to keep looking at the huge dump she made and can't bring herself to flush. She has to pay homage to her dump and turn it into a book.

Here are some fun facts about those assholes, the Bush family, that Kitty wants to share.

* Laura Bush bought, sold and consumed giant amounts of pot in college.
* Dubya was a wife-beating drunk.
* Dubya's Daddy, #41, had an affair with his secretary.
* Dubya’s mother, Barbara, is a stone cold bitch with fat ankles.
* More drugs, more illicit sex, more money - gobs and gobs of oil money.
* The Bush family is full of vampires, who live on the blood of kittens, babies and minorities.

I made up the last one, but you get the point.
I'm down with Kitty's cause - it's good to smear George W. Bush. He deserves it. Trouble is, I don't think she went far enough. This book was missing a series of outrageous lies, because those kinds of lies are the kind Bush's supporters believe. She could have ruined him, but no. Besides, why can't she make up some really juicy stuff instead? Why does his family sound like every other rich and dysfunctional family I've ever heard of? If she's going to diss the Bush Dynasty - smack that ass!

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Batta Batta SCHA-WING Batta Batta!

What’s up with that photo? That’s the worst picture of Wrigley Field ever taken, of course.

Why does the field look electrified? Like I said, it’s the worst picture ever. The lighting at Wrigley is great for night games, which is a contributing factor. It’s electric, boogie woogie woogie woogie.

How did I manage to get such a lousy picture? Draft beers and cell phone technology.

Is that old woman in the Cubs jacket your girlfriend? If only. As hot as she is, I’m not even close to being in her league.

Why am I showing you this? Because it was my first Cubs game, and the Cubs sent the Astros to bed, 2-1.

Why do stadium hot dogs taste better than hot dogs prepared at home? It’s a holy place, that’s why. I tried eating a Communion wafer at home once and I couldn’t even swallow it. Holy places make everything taste better.

How come Hardee’s doesn’t turn itself into a church then? God has turned His back on Hardee’s.

Did the Cubs’ pitcher adjust his nuts a lot? Carlos Zambrano, the pitcher who is also a batter, should be allowed to adjust his crotch and anyone else’s if he keeps winning games like that (he should say “please” first, followed by “thank you”).

Are the Cubs your favorite team? I favor the Toronto Blue Jays, because they were almost the home team where I grew up. However, I also claim the Cubs because they are the best losers ever; the Cubs are bona fide underdogs. They’re so gosh darn loveable when they aren’t beating the shit out of each other, too.

…but I don’t mind it as much when they beat up the opposing team…

Is Wrigley Field all that and a bag of chips? All that times ten, and there isn’t a bad seat in the joint.

Who is the best baseball player in the world? Shut up! You have to ask? Babe Ruth was the man! If he was alive, and if he took steroids like “some” baseball players do, Babe Ruth would have smacked balls into a permanent orbit.

One last question. Why is baseball called “America’s favorite pastime”? Jesus and George Washington said so, and they added it to both the Magna Carta and the U.S. Constitution.

Friday, June 01, 2007

Forty Years Ago Today

The Beatles - Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band 40th Anniversary

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

With a Little Help from My Friends

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

Getting Better (No video available)

Fixing a Hole

She's Leaving Home

Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!

Within You Without You

When I'm Sixty-Four

Lovely Rita

Good Morning Good Morning

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (Reprise)

A Day in the Life

Friday, May 18, 2007

Amy Winehouse

For your weekend viewing pleasure, I offer two Amy Winehouse videos. Neither of these videos is of exceptional quality, but they are extraordinary songs by a legend in the making.


"I Heard it Through The Grapevine" (with Paul Weller)

Thursday, May 17, 2007

That's Freakin' Weird Day - Volume 2

[UPDATE: May 20, 2007 - The photograph of naked skydivers posted here last week, the one that used to be up there has been deemed "inappropriate". Sorry!]

Today is “That’s Freakin’ Weird Day”. For those of you new to this blog, TFWD is a celebration of the more eccentric components of the human condition, and the often freaky world we live in.

Come let me show you all about TFWD! But first, TFWD begins with thanks to my Guardian Angel, Schlitzie The Pinhead. Schlitzie, I love you much!


The following video is nothing short of inventive. Click to play...



What do you get when you fall in love? According to a new health report, you might get oral cancer. OK, maybe you’re not “in love”. Let’s say you like someone enough to provide him or her with oral pleasure. What if that person has human papilloma virus (HPV)? HPV is a common sexually transmitted disease known to cause cervical cancers. HPV is also linked to cancers of the mouth and anus, and this disease is not preventable by wearing a condom.

Smoking, drinking, taking drugs, getting a tan, giving and/or receiving oral sex… That sounds like a cool weekend, doesn’t it? Cancer wants to ruin your weekend plans and make you die!

Fuck cancer! There is a vaccine for HPV. It is called Gardasil. This vaccine is recommended for girls and women, aged 9 – 26. It is best for pre-adolescent girls to receive this vaccine, before they have ever been exposed to HPV. Makes perfect sense to me.


Meet Brenda. She hates her neighbor, is a bigot and, and… well – you have to see what she does on the evening news. This video is titled “Crazy Acid Throwing Woman”.

Thorazine couldn’t hurt, is what I am saying, Brenda.


While looking up medical mysteries, I happened to find a small handful of articles about The Blue Fugates of Troublesome Creek. You can read about them here, here, and here .

Fugate kinfolk in Hazard, Kentucky, carry a genetic predisposition for methemoglobinemia. Methemoglobinemia is a rare, inherited blood disorder that results from excessive levels of methemoglobin in the blood. Too much methemoglobin makes people appear blue - as blue as a bruised plum. Yes, the Fugates are blue, and I am not talking about their emotional state! This condition is most prevalent in families who practice inbreeding.

The Blue Fugates are extremely private, it is said, and they do not wish to receive unwanted attention from curiosity seekers with cameras. Therefore, I cannot provide you with a photographic representation of a Blue Fugate, but I found an artist’s rendition (based on 100% speculation):

Have a happy TFWD!

Monday, May 14, 2007

The Brakes - All Night Disco Party

Today I am in love with "All Night Disco Party" by The Brakes. It is a super non-stop, uber-rocking ear worm guaranteed to please. Even tone-deaf people can sing along with The Brakes and enjoy maximum musical pleasure.

Croque monsieur, croque madame!

How To Poop On "Ulysses" by James Joyce

1. Visit your local library and check out "Ulysses" by James Joyce. Do not buy this book.

2. Attempt to have an open mind, and remember that many critics love this book, and that otherwise intelligent people call it a masterpiece.

3. By page 12, you begin to notice that the critics who love this book are huge fans of plot-free gibberish. The people who like this book probably also enjoy sniffing fragrant bicycle seats, use the word "quasi" too much, and get on everyone else's nerves.

4. Put down the book, and stop to consider why it took Mr. Joyce seven years to write "Ulysses". Come to the conclusion that it took Mr. Joyce so long because he wrote this book by pissing sentences in the snow. The book is rather long, so - call me crazy - I'm guessing that he had a lot to drink.

5. Pull down your pants, back up to "Ulysses" and poop all over it. Dare the library to make you pay for a new copy. The librarians replace "Ulysses" on their shelf with a roll of 2-ply toilet paper. Everyone agrees that it was a good idea.

I didn't like "Ulysses". It is a craptastic waste of trees. My brain bled trying to read this book, and I could not feel anything on my left side for months. After a year of physical therapy, I vowed to save the world from "Ulysses".

If I thought I could make this book feel pain, I would kick it in the crotch until it passed out. Would I really poop on this book if I could? Yes, I wouldn't hesitate.

Your Pal Mojopo
Reading all of the bad books so you won't have to.

Monday, May 07, 2007

Far Away, So Close

I’m back from my trip to Lake Ontario looking after my sister’s children. My sister’s neighborhood is full of tall trees that hide the sky on one side, and Lake Ontario on the other. In fact, her house is so secluded that I couldn’t get a cell phone signal unless I walked up the dirt road, past the clearing and cocked the phone towards the sky. At first it was charming. On the second take I remembered why land lines are so important, and not so much with the cell phones. It’s been years since I’ve spent more than a day there.

My concerns about watching over a teenaged girl with a cute boyfriend and a little boy who loves matches were unwarranted. Everyone behaved, laughed, they played video games, we went to a movie and it was very pleasant. My niece is painfully beautiful and smart, and my nephew is hilarious and energetic. I can’t wait to find out what kinds of adults they will be, but I do wish they’d stay young as they are now forever. I look at them and wish time could stop, for them and for me.

I also had time to visit the rest of my family and spend time with my parents, who are in their mid to late 70’s. Dad is on oxygen 24/7 now. It’s not a matter of “if” anymore, his doctors tell us. It’s all about “when”. He could go a few more years or a few more hours. As long as he doesn’t have another cardiac event, he’s stuck with us. I’m glad to report that none of this has changed my parents. They still bicker endlessly. Only now, Dad runs out of breath before he can yell too much and say things he will regret and Mom doesn’t have to meet the challenge. They would resume their disagreements where they left off, once everyone was rested. Most of the time, they forgot where they left off and started in about something new. In some bizarre way, I find their relationship endearing. I would not recognize my parents if they ever called a truce.

Back at my sister’s house, with her kids, peace was mostly a constant theme. It rained a bit, so we were often drowsy from the sound of rain on the waves coming to shore. Every morning, rain or shine, hundreds of ducks would show up outside of the house and graze on Lake Ontario. I would count as many as I could while the children got ready for school. Still in my pajamas, I’d grab a coat and drive them to the bus stop at the clearing, where the dirt meets a paved road. Afterward, I would go back to the deck and count more ducks. This isn't a great picture, but the little dots are ducks - a portion of them.

At sunset, a beaver would swim by. I tried to get her picture but she would dive below the waves and deprive me of the privilege. I called her Marlene Dietrich (“I vant to be alooooone.”)

My sister’s house is idyllic as memory. A forest is in the front yard.

And a Great Lake is in the back yard.

One night, I was on the patio reading “Hannibal Rising” by Thomas Harris. It was about 1:30 in the morning and the moon was full. Out of nowhere I suddenly heard, “Arooooo! Arr arr AROOOO-OOOO!” A pack of coyotes has settled in nearby. I was sufficiently spooked enough to go inside.

I should have paid attention to the coyotes. The “On Golden Pond” feeling was soon to end the next night. That was when I heard a duck outside making horrible noises. Ducks don't fly or swim at night, at least not where I come from. I grabbed a flashlight and went outside to investigate, but the batteries in the flashlight must have gone empty over the winter because it wouldn’t work. Quickly, I ran back inside, grabbed the keys to the Jeep, parked it next to the cliff over the water and turned on the high beams. I caught a glimpse of something very tragic. Just then, my niece and nephew came outside to see what was going on. The duck had woken them up and they were curious. I turned off the Jeep immediately, before the kids could see much. As soon as I heard my niece say, “Oh my God…” I realized they had already seen too much.

I asked the kids if they could run inside and find a better flashlight for me. Kicking off my shoes, I sort of prayed that I could see what I might need to swim towards. I walked down the stairs to the beach because I planned on diving into the 40° water to help the duck. It was going to be extremely important to know where I might be swimming, because the human body can only function properly for a few minutes in water that cold. I know this because I jumped into the icy water one February afternoon during a Polar Bear Swim back in the early 90’s, when the water was 34° under the surface ice. Timing was going to be everything.

There had been a lot of fishing going on in my hometown that week. I saw plenty of boats and fishermen on the water every morning and afternoon. “Must be another fishing derby,” my niece said. She wasn’t enthusiastic. Generally, locals never look forward to fishing derbies. People from away come to spend money and make fools of themselves. They get drunk; they make noise and generally make a mess while trying to catch the biggest fish for a cash prize. The men whistle at the teenaged girls and grab their crotches, and when they do these things, no one in town feels bad about jacking the price of food and supplies by 100% during fishing season. “Pay to play,” as the saying goes.

I thought of these fisher-people when I saw the duck in the headlights. It was tangled in someone’s discarded fishing line, struggling to stay afloat with one wing snagged and the other wing wound up and cocked in a unnatural position. Broken. The duck was being pulled by something under the waves that night, waves that were growing higher because of a coming storm.

My father saw something exactly like this once before, he told me. What happens is that a fishing line with a baited hook becomes snagged on rocks or debris and the fisherman cuts the line. A fish eats the bait on the end of that line, becomes hooked and struggles to become un-snagged. Once freed, the fish swims away with the tangled mess hooked to its’ lip until it dies or gets caught. On rare occasions, something else gets caught in the excess line and gets dragged around by the fish. This time, it was the duck caught up with a fish. I would guess it was large salmon or a rainbow trout terrorizing the duck. They can grow to be big enough and strong enough to pull fishermen along in un-tethered rowboats. Trying to help that duck was going to be nearly impossible and probably foolish – especially at night in very cold water. I was willing to try.

My nephew ran inside for something better than a flashlight for me. He came back with a strobe light. He and my niece attached it to extension cords in the basement and I kept trying to follow the noise with my ears. The night was too black to see anything, even a shadow. I could hear the duck struggling against the line, panicking.

By the time the kids brought over the strobe, the noises stopped. We waited for a half hour. My best guess is that the duck capsized in the tall waves and couldn’t right itself, or that the fish dragged it under. I waited outside for another hour, just in case. When I stopped listening and hoping, I put my shoes back on. The kids were tremendously let down. They went back to bed, quietly. No one slept very well, and the youngest asked to stay home from school the next morning. I let him.

It occurred to me that I waited to hear the duck with the same attention I gave to my father, when I watched him nap on the couch in the living room. He is attached by plastic tubes to a humming oxygen machine all of the time. I never had to watch him breathe before. Now, I feel like I have to. I worry when he hesitates, as he dreams.

Memory tells me that my father was the greatest fisherman in the world, once upon a time. We sang to the fishes from the back of his boat, and they would reward us by eating our lures. Most of the time, we released our catch. Sometimes we kept them, and Dad would have them stuffed and mounted. There were times when the fun was interrupted when we saw tourists throwing their trash into the lake. My father would troll along side the offending parties and all five and a half feet of him would rage and lecture. I have lost count of the times he would grab their refuse, and throw it back on their boats, daring whoever was on deck to challenge him. He knew what it was like to see a duck or something get caught in the garbage and feel helpless to salvage the situation. Now I understand how he felt because I could not save the duck.

I can’t save my father from his own bum heart and tired lungs, either. I really want to save him, but I can’t. I wish I could challenge his specialists to right this wrong of old age and disease, but they have done all they can. It’s too late in life to change the outcome.

Chicago seems very far away from Lake Ontario today.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Friday, April 06, 2007

That's Freakin' Weird Day - Volume 1

Welcome to… “That’s Freakin’ WEIRD Day!” at Mojopost.

That’s Freakin’ WEIRD Day (TFWD) is a brief sideshow. Part medical mysteries, part oddities, with some unusual pictures and curiosities tossed in for good measure. Shall we begin? Good.

Special thanks to my guardian angel and inspiration, Shlitzie The Pinhead, for giving me the idea for TFWD.

Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, I bring you… The Moscow Cat Circus! YAY YAY YAY!

Awesome! I have $50 on the cat to win the next round.

Next up, something spooky.

I looked for the best collection of ghost images I could find. I’m not sure if I’m seeing ghostly images, or thumbprints on a camera lens. Check out Ghost Photography.

When I started searching for ghost photographs, I didn’t realize how very many websites I would find. A quick Google search provided me with 16,500 hits, none of which I wanted to pass over for this Good Friday post.
It seems as if there might be a great deal of very sad people with dirty cameras and active imaginations out there, or is it something else? Are the dead desperately trying to connect with us, to tell us something? “Don’t forget to cancel my dentist appointment next month…Booooo…!”

Speaking of dentists…
This image is an example of what happens if you don’t brush your teeth. Sometimes, a mysterious fungus takes over. For real! This condition is called Lingua Villosa Nigra, more commonly known as Black Hairy Tongue. Disgusting, isn’t it? Remember to floss, too.

Sometimes sleeping naked is not a good idea. If you’re in a mosquito-infested area, in say…Africa…remember to bring your mosquito netting. Just ask this guy. He has Lymphatic Filariasis. Can you believe the balls on that guy? Whoa.

Let me help you get that image out of your mind.

Where were we? Ahh, yes. Exotic erotica.

This following website may be a web first. For anyone who’s into furniture, I mean really into furniture, this site is a must. I bring you… Furniture Porn!
I enjoyed the backdoor action with the patio set. How about you?

Until next time, Pee Wee Herman will dance his way to the end of this post. Have a lovely weekend, folks!

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Why So Crabby?

Lately, I’ve noticed a lot of crabby people grouching and complaining all around me. If I go on the Internet, message boards seem to be having a massive PMS-a-thon – males included. When I read the news, Nancy Pelosi is telling George Bush to chill, and he’s telling her to get a grip. Iran and the UK are engaged in a deadly game of "did so/did not" while the lives of hostages hang in the balance. On smaller scale, the cashier at the grocery store sneered at me yesterday when I asked where I could find charcoal briquettes for my grill. “Hmpf. I wish I had time off to grill.” What do I say to that? I’m sorry? Even the rats on my patio are crabby. They dragged their rat bait condos into my walking path and flipped me the bird last night when I was making hamburgers.

I even found this cranky cat on YouTube. I think this is cat-speak for, “Don’t tape me, a-hole!” Get it?

I can’t blame the month of April. It’s still a young month. It must not be March’s fault, either, because people were all pissy about things then, too. In February, a shit-faced off-duty police officer assaulted a young female bartender when she refused to serve him another drink, right here in Chicago. What about January? Credit card bills came due for December holiday purchases. It’s been The Winter Of Our Discontent for months now. If people don’t knock it off soon, I am afraid we’re likely to start driving nails into the ends of sticks to beat each other with at random intervals. Something has got to give!

I really don’t know how to change the mood. While so many people are feeling sensitive, I have instead become apathetic. Normally, I’m all for a round of good times and fun. And I’m eager to debate a point I feel strongly about. Not lately, though. I’ve been in a “I don’t give a shit, and screw you people anyway” mood. That’s hard for me to admit, because I don’t like being Debbie Downer. I’m a woman – we fake things. Orgasms, delight and surprise. We especially fake surprise if someone tells us gossip we’ve already heard, but were not supposed to know. “She screwed so-and-so, and then got herpes? On her FACE? I had NO idea!” Something like that.

While I am feigning smiles and mustering a good attitude in spite of myself, it’s not working. I don’t know if it’s because I’m fed the hell up with all the crabby people, or if I’m just bored.

I can’t save the world from discontent today, but I’d like to know how to shake off the doldrums. I’ve tried music, food, and even turned to cheerful glasses of alcohol. I force myself to read opinions from people I would never agree with, with the intention of mustering a raging torrent of righteous indignation. I walk. I get outside. I volunteer. I know I’m not getting enough sleep, but that Ambien stuff made me do some very weird things. I must shake this off. It’s cramping my funny bone.

If anyone has suggestions, post ‘em here. If you have a solution for crabby people, tell me about it. Feel free to vent here, as needed, so that you can reserve your energy for faking happiness in real life, too. If you know how to get me out of my blue funk, have at it!