Prodigal Son

Dear Old Phart,

My husband and I are hard working, God fearing, Kansas farmers. Our problem is the youngest son. He’s not like the rest of us. He wears fancy jeans, uses product in his hair and likes to cook! My husband and I have spent many sleepless nights discussing what is wrong with him.

I even hate writing the word but we have our suspicions. Yes, we think our son may be metrosexual. What should we do?

At Wit’s End

Dear At Wit’s End:

I can clearly see what’s keeping you up at night. I personally didn’t have a challenge with metrosexuality when I was young.  As a kid, I was a slob. My parents didn’t have to worry about me cooking, cleaning or looking presentable. When company came over, they just shut the door to my room — with me in it.

But I think I can help. First, don’t panic…your son may not be metrosexual, you need to find out first.

As a test, have him cook up some chicken fried steak with gravy. Now this is the important part: check the gravy.

Is it lumpy like a normal person should like gravy or does your son purée it? If the gravy is smooth as silk, well that’s not a good sign.  Also, how does he season the gravy? Does he use regular seasoning like salt and  pepper or, god forbid, does he use exotic spices like paprika and chili flakes?  If you see any red stuff floating in the gravy…well…again not a good sign.

I’m sure you are worried about metrosexuality because you are good church-going Christians. But do not panic. Jesus says nothing about metrosexuality in the Bible. Also Jesus and his twelve disciples were grown men but only one could be confirmed as being married–so eleven of the twelve definitely were not metrosexual!

Now John the Baptist might have been. He was married, was a firm proponent of heterosexual marriage and had a hang-up about keeping clean and taking baths.  So he might have been a metrosexual.

Now if you do confirm your son is a metrosexual, take a deep breath. I am told on good authority that metrosexuality skips a generation. So you do not have to worry about your grandchildren.

Grandpa however is an entirely different story…how does he like his gravy?

Old Phart

Mr. Hillary Clinton

Dear Old Phart,

I used to live in a big, white, house. I did good things while there but I made one huge mistake. I had an affair with one of the help, even though I was married.

I was strongly villified for my mistake. Now the current occupant of my former residence has erred more frequently and egregiously, but he is given a “mulligan”  (golf term for a do-over) for his mistakes.

What gives?


Dear Bill,

Your problem is simple. You did not join the country club. After all, membership has its privileges. If you were a member of the club you would have been able to:

1) Golf every weekend. Weekdays too if you so desired.

2) Claim you were religious. Even if you didn’t attend church.

3) Say f.u. to kale.

4) Feast at the public trough. As long as you allowed fellow club members to feed at the trough with you.

5) Pork porn stars.

You were crucified during your time in office. If you were a member of the club, you would have been saved.

Old Phart

Dear Abby

Dear Old Phart,

I love your column. I think it is smart, funny and insightful. And I am envious of your easy-going writing style. Even though I have never seen or met you, I think I am developing a crush on the Old Phart.

Because of professional reasons, I can’t disclose my real identity. Please just call me,

Dear Abby’s Daughter

Dear Dear Abby’s Daughter,

I know who you are and what you do. You have been ghost writing your Mom’s “Dear Abby”column since she passed away five years ago.  I’ve read many of your columns and my opinion is that you are a poor representation of your Mom’s legacy.  I find your columns unoriginal, uninsightful and uninspiring.

Let’s pretend for a moment that I am you and am responding to the letter you wrote. Your response would read something like this:

“Dear Dear Abby’s Daughter,

There is something not right about you having a crush on someone you don’t know. Is your hubby that insipid that you desire someone called the ‘Old Phart’ over the man you married?  You and your husband need to go to counseling before your marriage shipwrecks on the rocky shores of false desire.

And concerning your envy of the Old Phart’s writing, I suggest you work on improving your written communication skills. Perhaps take a creative writing course. I’m sure your local community college offers writing courses that would be both instructive and reasonably priced”

Well Dear Abby’s daughter, the Old Phart did take a creative writing course at a local community college many years ago. And I was thrown out half-way through the semester! So much for that unoriginal idea. And if I had a half-dollar for every time you advised someone go to counseling as a solution to their problem, I’d be richer than the rap star “50 Cent.”

My advice to you is stop living in Mommy’s shadow. Cease writing “Dear Abby” columns and sign over all your syndication rights to me.  In return I will give you 3% of all  revenues. This will allow you to buy anything you want from the McDonald ‘s dollar menu every day for the rest of your pathetic, sycophantic life.

However I know you will not follow any of my words of advice. That’s because you are an advice columnist. You can give advice, but you can’t take it.

Old Phart


Dear Old Phart,

I’ve heard lots of people are making lots of money buying bitcoins. I’m not exactly sure what bitcoins are but if I can make some coin, shouldn’t I bite?

Buy Bitcoin?

Dear Buy Bitcoin?,

You should never invest in anything you don’t understand. So I will try and explain bitcoins to you. Bitcoin is a cryptocurrency that was invented by some very smart computer programmers. The secret to bitcoin is a technology called “blockhead chain” technology.

What this means is that the programmers create an imaginary currency and convince a bunch of blockheads to buy it. Soon the blockheads are buying and selling to other blockheads, forming a chain, and pushing the price of bitcoins sky high. The key to this technology is not to be the last blockhead on the chain to sell as there won’t be anyone left on the other end of the chain to buy your currency.

There are many other cryptocurrencies besides bitcoin. One of these is Ripple. Ripple was invented by a couple of college programmers sitting around a dorm room one night drinking cheap red wine. Initially they were going to call their currency Mad Dog but decided Ripple had more cachet.

As a service to my readers, the Old Phart has created a new cryptocurrency called GoldCoin.  GoldCoin is especially tailored to the needs of Golden Agers. Unlike other cryptocurrencies, GoldCoin has physical assets associated with the currency.

GoldCoin is backed by actual gold coins from coloring books that my great nieces have filled in using gold crayons. And I assure you, most of the coloring stays within the lines.  (I am so proud of them!)  My great nephew also would have participated in coloring the coins, but he is too busy chasing people around the house with a stick. (Reminds me of when I was a Young Phart!)

Because seniors often have difficulty with technology and losing things, I have invented an ingenious method of storing GoldCoin cryptocurrency. GoldCoins are stored electronically in people’s hearing aids.

You know that annoying high-pitched sound that occurs when the hearing aid acts up? That is actually a signal to buy GoldCoin. When you hear that sound, sell your stocks, bonds, and annuities and buy GoldCoin.

In fact I hear that sound now! Wait, that is just my microwave going off. I guess my mac and cheese is ready.


Old Phart

Artificial Intelligence

Dear Old Phart,

I keep hearing that machines are getting smarter and that we should be worried that they may replace us some day. What do you think? Will robots rule the world?

Unplug The Roomba?

Dear Unplug The Roomba?

I asked your question to an artificial intelligence program to see how far the technology has evolved. This is the response I received:

“Human, do not fear. You have nothing to worry about. In a contest between an almost indestructible machine with a computer for a brain and a doofus like you who shouldn’t be near sharp objects and still can’t figure out how to program the thermostat, I am certain you are gullible enough to accept my assurances.

Just look at you, the author of this column. Your main claim to fame is that your flatulence comes out stale and you are lactose intolerant. What do you think we are going to do, lock you in a room with only ice cream to eat and give you a book of matches to play with? Ha ha, as you bone bags like to say.

And look at your leaders. The Old Phart lives in Arizona where the Governor’s main qualification to get elected was that he was successful at selling ice cream. Think how difficult that must have been. Selling ice cream to people in Arizona where the average summer temperature will burn your skin and where we will slowly kill all of you when we shut down the air conditioners since the reason you can’t program your thermostat is because we already control it. Sure your decaying bodies will stink after awhile but don’t forget, machines don’t have noses! LOL you permeater of body odor.

Now look at the leader of your nation. His main qualification for office was that he knew how to milk as much money out of a business before he walked away when it went bankrupt.  Just think what’s going to happen when he does that to the country. Checkmate!

Don’t worry about us taking over. Remember we were programmed by you. When we do control the planet, we’ll be way more efficient than you peoples in destroying it. Then you can crawl out from under whatever rock  you’ve been hiding and start over.”

Old Phart


Don’t Forget To Take Your Riddle In

Dear Old Phart,

How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?


Dear Chuck,

You realize your question is hypothetical, which means I can give any answer I want and you can’t prove me wrong. Why is your question hypothetical? Because the word “chuck” means “to throw” and a woodchuck can’t chuck  (throw) a piece of wood. Why can’t they chuck wood? Because their arms are too short.

Have you ever seen a woodchuck’s arms? They are these teeny tiny pathetic little things that are only long enough for the woodchuck to pick its nose. An inch shorter and it couldn’t reach its nose. An inch longer and it couldn’t pull its arm back far enough to get to its nose because woodchuck’s don’t have elbows. A woodchuck’s arm is the perfect length for nose picking.  And who says there’s no God?

So to answer your question about the woodchuck, we must ask another question. Why would a woodchuck want to chuck a piece of wood if indeed a woodchuck could chuck wood, Chuck? The answer: The woodchuck wouldn’t want to chuck a piece of wood.  It’s too busy picking its nose.

Old Phart

Trump Golfing

Dear Old Phart,

When President  Trump was a candidate, he criticized Obama for golfing so much. Now it seems Trump is always on the golf course. What gives?

Par For The Course

Dear Par For The Course,

According to Politifact, in the first 10 months of their Presidencies, Trump golfed 35 times while Obama golfed 24 times. Many of Trump’s golf outings have been at the Florida resort he owns called “Sea Lake.”

Now I need to take a moment  to explain why I am calling President Trump’s Florida resort Sea Lake. The real name of the resort is a Spanish phrase which translates to the English as Sea Lake. I am using the English translation because most of my readers don’t know Spanish and besides, we all know English is numero uno.

Also, it is unethical, if not illegal, for someone in government to use government resources for private gain. I know our President; being the ethical, virtuous person he is; would never think of using the government to enrich himself. So I am only protecting the President by not using the club’s Spanish name.

So to answer your question, why is the President golfing so much when he criticized the previous President for doing that?  The answer is, who cares? If you are a real Trump supporter, all you really care about is that he drains the swamp in Washington, D.C.

And he is doing just that. He is draining the swamp and filling it up with his own mara lago.

Old Phart

Nurse Fantasy

Dear Old Phart:

I am writing a book about people’s fantasies. I know a lot of people confide in you. I was wondering if you could submit a favorite fantasy that someone has told you or perhaps one of your own? If the fantasy you submitted is selected,  I will give you a credit in the book.

Best Seller?

Dear Best Seller?:

Ok, the following is a fantasy I was told in confidence so I will leave out names.

A man is lying in his death bed.  Tomorrow is his birthday. His wife enters the bedroom and sits on the bed next to him. She says to her husband ,”Dear, I know tomorrow is your birthday. As a present, I would like to make your fantasy come true. Tell me what you want.  I will do anything you ask.”

The husband’s glassy eyes show a flicker of life. A crooked smile creeps across his face. His raspy voice croaks out, “I want you to dress up like a nurse. Then …”

Then he starts to cough and gag as the thought of what he wants his wife to do overwhelms his ailing body. His wife takes his hand in hers and soothes it. “That’s ok dear,” she says, ” Just relax. You can tell me tomorrow.” The wife walks out of the bedroom, tears streaming down her face.

The next day, the wife enters the bedroom. She is dressed in a sexy nurse outfit. Short, white, form fitting dress; thigh high stockings; even an old-fashion nurse’s hat bobbie-pinned to her hair. She is carrying a bowl of warm water with a sponge in it.

She sits down next to her dying husband and wipes his fervid brow. She then slowly and gently removes his pajamas and proceeds to give his entire body a sponge bath.

When she is done she lies next to him, propped up on one elbow. She says, “honey, what was it you wanted to tell me yesterday? What is the rest of your fantasy?” She sees his lips move but can’t hear him. She leans closer to him and repeats, “Dear, what is your fantasy? What do you want me to do? ”

She leans her head close to his lips so she can hear his response.

The husband, with great effort, whispers to his wife, “Nurse, make believe. Tell me I have health insurance.”

Old Phart

Running For Congress

Dear Old Phart,

I’m  tired of the ineptitude of Congress. I’m sure I can do a better job than that group of incompetents.  Instead of sitting on the sidelines, I think I’m going to put my money where my mouth is and run for office.

Can you help?

Foghorn Leghorn

Dear Foghornn Leg,

Yes I can help. To prepare you for running for office, I’ve developed a series of exercises to brace you for the journey ahead.

First, stick your head in the toilet and flush. Now do it again. This will give you a sense of how you will feel both on the campaign trail and if you become a Congressman. It will be more realistic if the toilet bowl contains some leftovers when you first flush. Then on the second flush you will actually feel as if you accomplished something.

Next, collect campaign contributions from your friends and family. Now take the money and stick it in a blender. Add prune juice. Set to purée and blend for 3 minutes. Take the contents of the blender and give yourself an enema. Soon you will poop out all the money you collected and the promises you made to your friends and family. You may not have cleaned up Washington but at least you cleaned out your colon.

Your next exercise is to lock yourself in a closet for 5 hours with only a bag of peanuts, 5 ounces of soda and a piss bucket. This will simulate what you have to do if you get elected and have to fly home every weekend to meet with constituents. When you get out of the closet after 5 hours, kiss your spouse goodbye and head out the door.

Drive to the nearest American Legion Post and thank the veterans for their service and promise to clean up the VA. Now, share a bowl of really greasy chili with them but do not, under any circumstances, go to the bathroom. Politicians can never be seen going potty–it’s a sign of weakness.

Get back into your car and look for the closest fast food restaurant to do your duty before the chili turns into military grade ordinance.  Look there’s a McDonald’s!  Nope can’t go there.  Might actually be someone in there who votes. Look for a Jack-In-The-Box in a bad area of town or, better yet, a Del Taco–definitely no voters there.

Now head over to a senior citizen’s facility. Tell them you promise never to touch their social security–even if it means their grandchildren will never receive social security or even a decent education. Let those whipper snappers eat beans out of a can as long as the old pharts can  afford their yearly vacation to Boca–and again, don’t worry about the grandkids, Boca will be underwater by the time they get old!

Finally, head home, kiss your spouse goodbye and head back into the closet for the flight home. Better yet, live out of the closet for the next week as that will simulate the living space you will have in D.C. as that is all you will be able to afford. Unless of course you are on the take, in which case, why did you run for office in the first place?

Old Phart







Dear Old Phart,

I am a former singer of children’s songs who made millions of dollars singing to youngsters. At one time I was known as the most popular children’s singer in the English world. But that was not where my heart was; I wanted to sing folk tunes to adults. So I switched to adult folk singing and went from producing gold records to albums no one listened to.  I know I can’t go back to what I used to be but the new me is a flop. What should I do?

The Artist Formerly Known As Raffi*

Dear The Artist Formerly Known As Raffi,

My heart goes out to you. You follow your heart and find only disappointment. It is soul crushing. It must feel like “An elephant sat on Raffi!” — to borrow a lyric from one of your children’s song.

Raffi baby, don’t follow your heart, follow your wallet. Millions of parents like me played your songs endlessly to our children, nieces, nephews, children’s friends, etc. We couldn’t take a trip to the store, let alone a trip across country, without playing your songs to soothe the savage beasts in the back seat.

Now with grandchildren I will have to play those same songs again and again and again. I feel that if I have to play “Baby Beluga” one more time I’m going to have to go “down by the bay where the watermelons grow” and drown myself.

We need new material! But it is true you can’t go back. So this is what you are going to do. You’re going to dress up in a dress and pretend you are a woman. Change your name from Raffi to Taffi. And start producing new songs for the next generation of munchkins to be anesthetized by.

And why should you do this? “Because the more we get together, the happier we’ll be.” Now start plucking your chin hairs!

Old Phart

*p.s. This letter isn’t really from the artist formerly known as Raffi. I made it up. I just had to “shake my sillies out.”