Tide Pod Challenge

Dear Old Phart,

I keep reading about the Tide Pod Challenge where teens dare each other to place a Tide detergent pod in their mouth for as long as they can while they video what they are doing. When I was a kid, we used to swallow gold fish–it was a lot healthier!

What’s wrong with kids these days?

Big Gulp

Dear Big Gulp,

I can’t tell you what is wrong with kids these days, but I can tell my readers how dangerous it is to ingest a detergent pod. What really bothers me however is that the main-stream media is missing the bigger story here; the media just focuses on the dangers of eating Tide pods–there are a whole lot of other things they should be warning people not to do with a detergent pod.

So as a service to my readers, I will list some of the things one should not do with a Tide detergent pod:

  1. Don’t use a Tide pod as a suppository.
  2. Don’t use a Tide pod as a replacement for your glass eye. (Although it would look way cool!)
  3. Don’t use a Tide pod as a replacement for those pills people slip into drinks to render their victim unconscious or kill them. Your victim will be screaming hysterically before the pod has its desired effect. (You listening to this Bill Cosby?)
  4.  Don’t use a Tide pod as a replacement for a Halloween treat when you run out of candy. How stupid can you be? Kids don’t do laundry!
  5.  Don’t use a Tide pod as a replacement for the miniature candy you stole from the assorted chocolate gift box. It’s a good way to lose a girlfriend.
  6. Don’t use a Tide pod as a hand sanitizer.  It actually works really well  but you can only do it once. After the first time you use it, you have no more hand skin left to sanitize.

And last but not least,

7. Don’t use Tide pods to do laundry. Get off you fat patootie and pour regular detergent into a measuring cup. What are you thinking having something as potentially dangerous as a Tide detergent pod laying around the house? That would be like having an unsecured loaded handgun laying around a house full of kids. Oh…you have kids and you do have a loaded gun laying around your house? Hmm, maybe you should use a Tide pod as a suppository.

Old Phart

 

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?

Bill

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

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?

Chuck

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

Wedding Rap

Dear Old Phart,

My daughter’s wedding is coming up and I want to give a memorable “father of the bride” speech. I haven’t been the greatest Dad so I want to do something special. I’ve seen on You Tube a lot of people doing wedding raps, but I’m not that good with words. Can you help?

Befuddled Dad

Dear  Befuddled Dad,

Yes I can help. The Old Phart listens to all types of music from Stravinsky to Poop Dog, er, Snoop Dogg.  Just call me RapMaster O.P. (Old Phart). Here we go:

Wedding Rap

Ushers,  deacons, lock the door,

Here comes a rap from the bride’s Pa

Ya’ll  better listen to me with cer-tain-tee,

If not I’ll drive by and put a cap in yo’ knee!

One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready

go daddy go.

When the bride be born, she a wee baby,

They all said me, just a Daddy maybe.

So I bought her a toy–a stuffed animal named Tigger,

She grew up like her Mom–a friggin’ gold digger.

One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready

go daddy go.

The bride and groom met on a blind date,

He took to her right out o’ the gate.

On that night,  he think I can bang-bang,

So by the morn’ she had bagged him by his whang!

One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready

go daddy go.

Now they hitched, livin’ ‘n marital bliss.

As long as he raise hand, before he go piss!

One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready

go daddy go.

This rap is done, I’m your proud Pa,

Now I go home and get throttled  by your Ma!

Old Phart

Taking A Knee

Dear Old Phart,

What’s all this controversy about football players kneeling during the national anthem? Whatever happened to respecting the flag? Do you love our country or are you one of those hippie communist nut jobs?

Which Side Are You On?

Dear Which Side Are You On?,

This is one of those controversies I really don’t get worked up about. My biggest concern right now is whether I can finish this in time to take a nap.

Just so you know, I would never kneel during the national anthem. My knees hurt when I kneel and at my age I’m not sure if I would be able to get up afterwards.

But enough about me. You don’t like football players kneeling during the national anthem? That’s easy enough to fix. Use your brain; try aversion therapy on the NFL.

Start a social media campaign calling out football players who kneel during the national anthem. Call them wimps. Say real men don’t kneel during the national anthem. Tell them if they were real men then they would kneel when it would actually take courage to get down on one knee…like in the locker room shower after the game!

Oh yeah. The first time one of those players takes a knee in the shower and finds themselves at eye level with Gronkowski’s schlong, it’ll be game over. Or perhaps they’ll find themselves staring at some tight end’s beefy behind. Such a vision will be burnt into their brain so brightly that they’ll never kneel any place anytime soon for fear of remembering that sight.

And I don’t think the other players will take too kindly with a teammate being eyes to eye with their privates. Don’t be surprised if this results in unnecessary roughness and unsportsmanlike conduct in the locker room.

So, problem solved.  See all you have to do is use your brain to address any dilemma. I’m so good. Maybe next time I’ll tackle something a little more challenging…like cutting toe nails when you’re old and your stomach gets  too big.

Old Phart