Magic Is For The Weak!

June 19, 2008 by

Grandchild-and-all-around-pansy Rick sent me this video of an Asian pretending to be an old man and doing magic on a train.   Rick thought it would give me some sort of purpose in life since I’m spending a lot of time writing letters to the editor of the local newspaper/birdcage liner about how ungrateful all generations after mine are.

Oh Percy, how idle are your hands?!!!!

I was not amused by this video.  Magic is for the weak!  Weak in spirit!  Weak in throwing ability!  Weak in intestinal fortitude!   I just called Rick’s mom and told her to do her matronly duties and restrain her son’s magical tendencies.   If you’ll excuse me, I have some letters to finish before Raymond comes on.

– Percy Johanson

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I’m Not Picking Up Your Dog’s Shit

May 9, 2008 by

Howdy, folkpeople! I hope you’re all full of mirth and not forced to pick up someone else’s dog shit like me!

Percy, how you’ve been taken for a fool!

I recently moved into a new home for folks waiting to kick the tin bucket.  Lick the final stamp.  Thatch the yard one last time.  You get the idea, faithful blog readers.

Anywho…

The new place, Terminal Pines Senior’s Paradise, is down the street from a dog park.  All morning as I sit and read the transcript from the prior day’s Paul Harvey Show I’m forced to observe my lazy neighbors walking their three-legged dogs and yapping furballs past my bay window.  And if I had a buffalo nickel for every time I had to throw my remote control gun at the window, I’d have enough money for an extra case of Pabst every month!

Percy, why do you refuse to buy the party-sized 30-pack?!

The other day, though, I was at my wit’s end!  The three-legged dog and his mill rat owner were traipsing in the grass outside my window when I saw the last lawn deposit I ever wanted to see in my life.  I was overcome with rage — the kind of rage you get when someone cuts in front of you in line at Wal-Mart and you realize they have a full cart to your bottle of Maalox and box of Jalapeño Poppers.

I hobbled my way to the front door of Terminal Pines and yelled at the Lathe Lackey as he tried to dash off with his odd mutt in tow.

“How’d you like it if I shit in your front yard?” I screamed at him.

“What? Oh, I.  That wasn’t from my dog’s ass, you old man.”  he bellowed at me.

I didn’t bother replying because at the moment I’d already forgotten what I had planned to say to him.  It was good, I know that much.  But sometimes you have to practice patience and focus on the war instead of the battle.  I learned that from Bob Hope during his USO Tour back in Korea.   In this case, that meant waiting until he wedged himself in his tiny Korean car and made his way to the cardboard factory he’ll eventually lose a finger to.

I sauntered down the sidewalk towards his cottage house and proceeded to make a little lawn deposit of my own.  Nothing like a little vigilante justice to right the wrongs perpetrated on Terminal Pines!    Next thing you know, dear reader, his wife pops out of the house screaming like I’d just taken their first born to the prom.   I fastened my velcro belt and tried to pretend I didn’t know what was going on, but she kept insisting I pick up the lawn ornament I donated.  I relented, dear reader, when she threatened to call the police.  Last thing ol’ Percy needs is another lawsuit to juggle while I’m trying to get this RWI (Rascalling While Intoxicated) dropped.

The lesson, readerfolk, is that you need to wait until it’s dark out before you exact revenge.  No one can see you; it’s why ninjas wear black and it’s why my son waits until the midnight hour to steal my pills.   Now if you’ll excuse me, readers and readerettes, I have to go wash my hands.

-Percy

Macaws and Prostates

January 12, 2008 by

Grandchild and jack-of-all-gay Rick came over the other morning with the meds I get to take for my gland.  I’ve never been one to take the drugs.  Once you’ve tasted God in a Korean hash house the Mormon pleasure of a Tylenol just doesn’t cut it.  But when it comes to peeing, I suppose I’ll make an exception .

Oh Percy, how you’ve been humbled by your Prostate!

Rick felt bad about my condition. Not so bad that he’d finally learn to throw a goddam baseball without emitting gay radiation like some sort of gay microwave, but bad enough that he bought his ol’ granpa Percy a Macaw.  General Douglas MacArthur, as I named him, came in a fancy brass cage complete with a New York Times newspaper lining the bottom.  Just how I like my New York Times!

What a grandson!

General Douglas MacArthur, with his bright blue and yellow coat of feathers, is an altered beast of a gift. I think that’s some sort of electrified wolf; I’m not sure myself, but that’s how Rick described it and I kind of like how it sounds.  Altered beast.  Hmm.

Considering some of the gifts I’ve received from my kids, which included…

  • ceramic skull ashtray
  • ceramic plumber (with ass-crack ashtray)
  • ceramic Korean (not an ashtray)
  • rare Precious Moments figurine of Charles Bronson inscribed with the words, “I love you this much!”
  • lottery ticket

… I’d say General Douglas MacArthur was the greatest gift I’ve ever received.

But, as they say, there’s always a catch. Much like the greatest military commander of our time, General Douglas MacArthur is loud as a banshee!  I try to watch my stories on the television and every time one of those infernal car alarm commercials comes on, General Douglas MacArthur is squawking and I gingerly walk to the window to make sure no one has stolen the hood ornament off my friend Geri’s Cadillac Seville.  The first few times I thought it was pretty amazing General Douglas MacArthur could sound so much like the car alarm Geri installed on his Cadillac, but now I’m starting to get pretty jazzed about it!  General Douglas MacArthur is even starting to mimic some of the singers on Grand Ole Opry, Tuesday nights at 7 p.m. on PBS.

So now I have a swollen prostate and a macaw General Douglas MacArthur.  If you were an alien from the future and you told me I’d have trouble pissing and would develop a creeping paranoia about auto theft I would have told you your full of space shit!

–dedicated to my Grandma–

Grandchild Rick Went To Chicago

November 13, 2007 by

And the only picture he took all weekend was of Tom Selleck! 

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Where’s My Skull Candle – Part Two

August 28, 2007 by

(Continued from here)

Grandchild Rick just called to remind me to finish the story I was telling all you quiet and lonely readers about the casino trip from hell.   It’s little things like that which make me forget that Rick enjoys impersonating a girl throwing a medicine ball whenever we play catch. 

Ok, where was I? 

The bus left the Shaded Veranda of Oaks With Shade On Them Community Center in the afternoon with only myself and neighbor Harold on it.  The blue hairs and other veterans and America-hating neighbors of mine were safely in the center’s craft room/fallout shelter preparing for the storm equivalent of the second coming of His Son as we passed time on the bus asking each other what the other person just said. 

We arrived at the Casino and stepped off the hydraulic steps of the bus into humidity that I could have sworn tried to stop short with me.  My vinyl jacket was sticking to me in the heat and Harold’s glasses fogged like that time Geri Hatrick, Harold and I snuck into Gladys’ apartment while she showered.  Thankfully, we were able to park close since we brought our handicapped parking pass.  Next thing you know, we’re inside the casino and on our way to Vanna White’s nurturing bosom of slots. 

Two hours, two diet Pepsi’s and two cashed Social Security check later, Harold and I were back on the fun bus waiting for our driver to finish pissing underneath the LeBaron parked next to us.  That’s right, he was under the car!  He was all worried about security seeing him, but not wanting to run inside since he doesn’t have a license, so I told him to do what we used to do in Korea: crawl under the car, lay on your side, unzip and let it flow.  Needless to say, the driver crawled out from under the LeBaron a new man.   In much the same way, we were forever changed when the bus pulled out of the parking garage and onto the highway. 

I swear I saw more trees uprooted and garbage strewn about the landscape than I ever saw in my ungrateful grandchild Tony’s room.   It was a sight! 

Shit.  Jimmy, my ungrateful son who put me in this place because he secretly enjoys my sadness, is coming over so he can feel better about leaving me alone 6 days a week.   We’ll just have to finish this story tomorrow. 

Rick, when you’re finished with your Wednesday throwing class please give your gramps another reminder call.  And start extending your arm when you throw.  You don’t play with sausage-themed dolls like your sister, so stop throwing like you secretly want to set a small table with your finest china and have a damn tea party with those slutty dolls!  

Where’s My Skull Candle?

August 27, 2007 by

Hello readers!  Johnanson Enterprises is back in business after a rough patch last week.  No, I’m not back in the textiles game, that’s just how me and Rick refer to ourselves (sometimes, I call him The Rickshaw). 

It turns out, high winds, old trees and power cables don’t mix well.  That meant I wouldn’t be watching my stories on the TV all weekend because of the giant storm that blowed through the Soon-You’ll-Die Apartment Complex on Thursday.  

What a bitch that was. 

The Bingo Bus picked me up Thursday for our weekly pilgrimage to Epilepsy and Diet Coke Casino.   Normally, the “High Noon Flyer” is filled to the gills with the money-lusting blue hairs angling for the next inheritance-filled walking corpse they can canoodle with under the flashing lights of the Wheel of Fortune slots.   Not this time.  Oh no.  Apparently, all the frisky blue hairs’ children actually give a damn about them because that bus was as empty as the local VFW when they’re out of Old Fashioned mix. 

Harold Schotzen’s kids must hate him as much as mine do me, because we were the only ones on the entire bus.  Since no one told us about the “Fat Man” on track to strike the area in the afternoon, Harold and I were like cattle on the slaughterhouse conveyor belt of stormy weather. 

Would the line end at the casino, our retirement community or on the road to the Seizure Palace?  Come back tomorrow for the thrilling conclusion to “Where’s My Skull Candle?”

To be continued…

I’ll Fuck Your Car Up

August 23, 2007 by

Hello campers! Percy’s back from his summer vacation with the son and his terrible horrible family! My grandchild Rick told me that’s how the kids are speaking these days; talking all in the third person like a goddamn fool. Fool or no fool, do I have a story to tell whoever is reading this.

Rick, you know how I told you some things aren’t meant for grandchildren? Well, this is one of those stories. I probably shouldn’t have given this internet blog post such a blue title if I didn’t want you to read this, but my Fig Newtons are jammed into the backspace key on the old keyboard and there’s no turning back.

Rick, go practice your throwing now. 

Ok, so last weekend was the annual Ungrateful Children of Percy Reunion at the Olive Garden in whatever city my son, Jimmy, lives in.  I like the bread sticks.  

On Saturday morning, Jimmy and his wife, Deborah, along with their spoiled children, picked me up at the home they forced me into so they could steal my house.  We then drove for three hours in the comfort of their children’s incessant wailing.  Talk about a blast! 

Finally, we arrived at the parking lot of the Olive Garden in whatever urban wasteland my spawn moved away from me for.  All my kids, and their kids, were there, which for the first few minutes made me about as happy as I am on Ribeye Night at the home — just pink enough, but not too bloody! (Geri always laughs when I say that for some reason. Hmm…) — but then things turned sour.  My ex-wife showed up with her batch of Percy seeds.  Oh boy. 

Maude is, was and forever shall be a bitch.  A giant bitch.  Queen bitch, with one of those fancy headdresses all the Egyptians wore.  Bitchopatra or something like that. 

Maude walks up with our eldest mistake, Tony, and I can tell somthing is different about him.  Same jerkoff attitude and same jerkoff voice, but he’s holding a keychain in his hand.  I think it’s from that group with the cars and the women with the legs.  ZZ Top.  

Tony has never shown an ounce of manhood since I first slapped him in the mouth for crying during the scene in On Golden Pond when Henry Fonda falls in the water.   But that’s neither here nor there.  See, Tony has a brand new used car he wants to show me and he’s all smiles as he walks up in his mesh tank top and shorts with lots of pockets for cargo. 

He helps me walk all the way over to the parking lot to gaze upon his 1984 Camaro IRAQ.  What a piece of shit.  It’s got a bird on the hood, but not like in Smokey & The Bandit.  Instead, it’s some chicken that’s touching itself like a damn pederast!  Tony keeps telling me how much of a steal the car was, but all I can focus on is the giant fucking bird’s eyes, following me as I slowly push my walker away from the masturbating bird.   I think I stopped listening to Tony describe the lamb’s wool seat covers around that time, because suddenly he grabs me and asks where I’m going.  I must have hit the record button on the new phone Jimmy gave me, because the rest of my conversation with Tony went like this:

“Don’t you want to see the inside, grandpa?” 

“No, Tony.  Your car is shit and that bird is freaking me out. Let me grab some potato salad away from your shit ass bird rubbing itself for all the children here to see.” 

“But, grandpa.  I was hoping you’d be willing to lend me a few bucks for some of those sweet mudflaps with the naked ladies on them.  You know how you’re always giving Rick money for baseball cards and throwing lessons?  It’s not fair you never give me anything, especially since I can throw a baseball and all.” 

Tony’s right on one point — he throws a baseball better than that pansy Rick can any day of the week (unless it’s in the month of Fagtober) — but Tony broke my cardinal rule:  Never Ask Percy For Money.   Next thing you know…

“Money?  Why. I. Oughta!”

I lunged at Tony’s collared shirt and pulled.  He fell into me and I kicked him in the shin.  He didn’t seem fazed, but he moved out of my way, giving me a clear shot at the cock hood.  I strained to lift my walker high enough, but the Lord blessed me at that moment and I hoisted my walker and dropped it with extreme prejudice on that damn chicken and his sinful appendage.  

Jimmy and Deborah heard the noise of my walker scraping against the aluminum hood and ran over.  Maude just stood there talking to someone else about what a shitheel I was.  Tony was on his knees crying for me to stop.  At least this time it’s not over Henry Fonda and Katherine Hepburn! 

– Percy “Big Ups” Johanson

Beatrice, Maude & Me – a GeriHatTrick!

July 25, 2007 by

So, yesterday after “Matlock” I popped a few V’s and went down to the local VFW to grab a few BOFs and check out the ladies .  Well by the time I got down there, the V’s started kickin’ in, and that had me feeling like a regular Phil Mickelson. 

5  BOFs later, I brought these two hotties back to the retirement village.   Beatrice and Maude were their names, and boy let me tell you, I haven’t had an orgy like that since Korea!

I knew I was pulling off one crazy GeriHatTrick when we broke my walker, but stuff got really out of control later when I accidentally started doing Maude on top of the nurse call button and the hospice nurse walked in!  I asked her if she wanted to join in, but I think she was too busy crying and screaming to hear me.  Oh well, she’ll get her chance another time! 

-Geri

Geriatric Jargon

July 23, 2007 by

Here are a few of my favorite Sexy Geriatric Jargon Terms defined:

GeriHatTrick – A 3-some involving senior citizens. (Also my namesake.)

 SGS – Silent Generation Swinger. (To whom our website is dedicated.)

BOF – Brandy Old-Fashioned. (Drink of choice for SGSs world-wide.)

BK – Before Korea.

AK – After Korea.

V – Viagra.

Korea Was A Bitch

July 23, 2007 by

When I’m sitting on my favorite stool at the local VFW, getting my betting sheet ready for the 3pm visit to the nearest OTB, I like to use the pen my oldest pal Johnny gave me when we were fighting in Korea. It’s got a picture of a lady, some flapper dame, and when you turn it upside down her clothes float up and off her revealing a bush you could hide a VCR in. I’m not sure what that phrase means, or why you’d want to hide one of those giant VCR’s in a lady, but my grandchild Rick was saying that last night during the Sunday Night Johanson Clan Silent Dinner and Awkward Conversation and I suppose it’s true of my pen lady. But that’s neither here nor there. No, the fact of the matter at hand is that Korea was a bitch.

I drove a jeep around that country for two years. Territory changed hands like a Chicago Cardinals football game, but with wounded GI’s all over the field and no “Million Dollar Backfield.” Then, one day in July of 1953, Truman, that SOB, called a truce and we packed up and left like my son’s family does every Thanksgiving. At least Truman let everyone know before he left, I suppose, unlike Percy Jr., but the disappointment was all the same. And all I had to show for it was a pen with a naked lady with lots of pubes. What a bitch that was.

-Percy “Where’d My Kid Split To?” Johanson