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.”

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





Dear Old Phart,

A few months ago I was in a car accident. While healing, I was in intense pain so the doctor prescribed opioids. Well now I’m hooked on them and my prescription is running out. My choices are few: find a new doctor who will write a script, buy the drugs on the black market or switch to the cheapest option…heroin.

I don’t know what to do. I need the drugs to exist; it’s the only thing I crave anymore.

Can you help me?


p.s. I’m not Rush Limbaugh

Dear Desperate:

When I was a child I used to crave certain television shows. One of my favorites was “Andy of Mayberry.” This show starred Sheriff Andy Taylor and his son Opie. What does Opie have to do with Opiods? Nothing! Opie never did drugs, which is why he is one of the few childhood stars who became a successful adult and is now an Academy Award winning movie director.

You on the other hand are a crackhead junkie. The road you are going down has no good ending. If you don’t kick the habit you will lose everything and everyone you care about.

Usually in a situation like this, I would recommend counseling and give some wise advice on how to stop addiction. But not with you. I want nothing else to do with a disgusting human being like you.

How dare you try to bribe me by including a fentanyl pill in your letter! You are a dirty disgusting dingus. I don’t do drugs and I can’t be bribed you low-life scumball.

You disgust me. If I were half a man I’d beat your sorry ass. Try to bribe me? Sheesh…

Well ok, maybe I’m being a little too harsh and, as a decent human being, I  should show some empathy for someone who has a debilitating addiction. Lord knows I’m not perfect. Ok Old Phart, take a deep breath…calmer now. Sorry for the rant….hmm… Maybe I’d be doing a service to my readers if I did take the pill you sent, tried drugs just once, to see what it is like to be in your shoes.

Ok. Just once. Here goes. (gulp)…







old PhaRt^

Smelly Farts

Dear Old Phart,

I am having this issue of loud smelly farts! I stopped dairy and it seemed to get worse. I stopped meat and got even worse, I stopped raw salad and it stayed about the same so I gave up cooked veggie’s and the farts go so loud I couldn’t believe it came from me. So I quit all whites, and the smell was a bit less but the farts even louder. Then I stopped eating sweets and now everyone says, “I can’t believe that came from such an emaciated women.” I am so skinny that the wind I blow propels me off the ground. What should I do?

Poot, poot


Dear Poot poot,

Ahhhh….hmmmm…this one almost had me stumped. But do not fear, the Old Phart is here!

First, change your name to Mary Poofins. Then produce a television series where you play a nanny to two young children who are the only ones who know the secret that you fly when you fart.

Now you will become famous and have millions of young admirers who fall in love with your character. Then one day a young anorexic girl who is trying to emulate you dies from malnutrition. You are blamed for her death and for thousands of females becoming anorexic.  At public appearances, plus-sized models protest your character by pelting you with half-eaten danish (ok they were hungry). At one demonstration you are knocked unconscious by a week-old, hard-as-a-rock, cranberry walnut scone.

Your sponsors leave. Your series is cancelled. You waste away and die in shame leaving a beautiful, non-anorexic  partner behind who will grieve for you the rest of her life.

Is this what you want? Of course not. Gain weigh now! To help you on the road to recovery,  I have enclosed a box of high caloric, easily digestible, Hostess Twinkies. Ok it’s half a box…I got hungry.

Old Phart




First World Problems

Dear Old Phart:

As a young Millennial,  I come to you seeking enlightenment. Our president exists. I honestly don’t get it. My Millenial friends’ outlook and basic faith in humanity diminish every day.  I can’t help thinking that Trump will be the defining event in my generation, in a bad, soul-crushing way.

You lived through the Nixon, Clinton, and numerous other scandal clad administrations. Is there any hope that our president will be impeached or resign? Am I in denial in thinking that anything will ever stick to this guy; no matter what happens, nothing seems to affect him. Should I keep the faith? Or should I move on and adopt a cynical view of society?

Impeaches and Cream

Dear Impeaches and Cream:

Times of social unrest, despair and upheaval often result in the creation of society changing movements. For example the 60’s and 70’s resulted in an explosion of new music, new art and new ways of expressing oneself.  Some of the greatest pieces of bathroom grafitti arose during the depths of the Vietnam war, civil rights protests, and violent urban revolution.  When President Richard Nixon was running for  re-election, I remember sitting in the stall of my high school bathroom  and reading this gem: “Don’t change dicks in the middle of a screw. Vote for Nixon in ’72.”

Don’t get your panties in a bunch over the current state of craziness. Put things in perspective. As blogger Jessica Hagy points out, while much of the world is worried about hunger, rape and cholera, Americans are bothered that someone put too much goat cheese in their salad.

Don’t feel cynical about society! That’s what “they” want you to do. Did you know in the last election there was a special group of people whose job was to post stuff on social media to make Millennials feel discouraged? They want to take you out of the process. If you give up, they win!

And you can’t give up. You have to engage, fight the power, be a productive member of society and work for social change.

Especially take note of the above mentioned advice about being a productive member of society. You gotta be man, after all, whose going to pay for my Social Security?

Old Phart

Oh Gawd God!

Dear God,

I have prayed to you my whole life. I deeply believe in you and your greatness. I am overawed by your majesty. However sometimes I wonder what you are thinking when bad things happen. Are you just testing us?

True Believer


Dear True Believer:

First, I am not God. Your letter must have gotten mixed-up at the post office.

Second, unlike God, you can see me, feel me, touch me, and when I don’t change my socks, you can smell me too.

Third, I do not have God’s current address…he keeps moving. The last address I had for him was Salt Lake City but he left when Mitt Romney lost the Presidency. Rumor has it that he is now sharing an address with the Devil in Trump Tower but I understand through well-placed sources that this address might not be good for long. So instead of relying on the post office to deliver your letter to the right recipient (I don’t want the Devil  to get it by mistake), I will try and answer your question.

There is an ancient Hebrew prayer called the Shema. The English translation of the prayer is:”Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.” The question is, the Lord is One what?

Is the Lord One Great Guy as miracles do happen?

Is the Lord One Big Shmuck as tragedies do occur?

Is the Lord One Ton A Mera? (He’s Hispanic!)

Is the Lord One Toke Over The Line? (He’s a stoner!)

Is the Lord One Mother Mary who comes to me? If so…let it be, let it be.

So here’s the rub. Religion tries to tell you who God is. In reality, God is whoever you want Him/Her to be.

You won’t believe it but I just finished talking to God. He’s a middle age American male who works a 40 hour week, makes $58,000 a year and gets a pension after 30 years. Yup, he’s the postman who delivered your letter to me. 🙂

Old Phart

Homework Help

Dear Old Phart,

I am a high school student. Next week we are going to have a test on “How A Bill Becomes A Law.”  I don’t understand it; it seems so complex. Can you explain it to me in a simple way? I can’t afford to fail this test.

Sophmoric Sophmore

Dear Sophmoric Sophomore,

I can help you with this. In another life I worked in government so I have a good idea how the process works.

In federal government, the way a bill becomes law is simple–it doesn’t. Because of filibusters, incompetent political leaders, ideological Congressmen, the right wing media (FoxNews) the left wing media (MSNBC) and the media no one listens to (Wolf Blitzer), nothing ever gets passed.

In state government, it is a little more complicated as each state is different. But while the process varies by state, the principles are remarkably similar.

First a well-funded special interest group comes up with an idea for a bill. Then the special interest group spins a story how such a bill would be good for everyone in the state, even though the bill’s real purpose is to make a lot of money fot a select group of greedy bastards.

Next the special interest group contacts a state legislator it has bought off, uh, I mean, to whom it has given a lot of campaign contributions. This legislator sponsors the bill.

The state legislator then finds other legislators who receive campaign contributions from the special interest group, or would like to, and calls them co-conspirators, uh I mean, co-sponsors.

Then the process gets a lot more complex with committee meetings and votes interspersed with lobbyists buying lavish meals and mixed drinks for hardworking public officials. And yes, if lucky, some gruesome legislator who is uglier than the cattle he raises, gets to have some moo time with a winsome corporate lobbyist who has earned her reputation by learning how to give some to win some.

Eventually the legislation makes it to the Governor’s desk to sign into law. After signing the bill the Governor gives the signing pen to the leader of the special interest group in exchange for thousands of dollars worth of independent campaign  expenditures. (Proving that indeed the pen is mightier than the sword!)

In summary:

How does a bill becomes a law in the federal government?  “It doesn’t.”

How does a bill becomes a law in state government? “Money.”

The above summary is all you need to know for your test. If the teacher has a problem with it, hack her social media account and tell her you are thinking of forwarding her drunk party pictures to the school  board.

You’ll ace your test and, who knows,  you might have a bright future in politics!

Old Phart


Dear Old Phart,

I am a 54 year old woman and have entered that dreaded phase of life, menopause. I have hot flashes, irritability and sleepless nights. But the worse part is my husband. He is not understanding at all. In fact he is bugging me to take all these hormonal pills and creams, as if they are going to make me a young woman again. I’m nervous about taking these substances, some studies have shown them to cause cancer.

To make it worse, yesterday he handed me divorce papers. He said if I don’t start filling my body with estrogens he is going to leave me. What should I do?

Whose Body Is It?

Dear Whose Body Is It?:

By all means, go ahead and use the estrogen pills and creams…just don’t use them on yourself…use them on him!

Grind up the pills and put them in his coffee. Make his Irish Whiskey into I Wish I Wasn’t Such A Turkey Estrogen Cocktail. When you have your intimate moments, spice up your foreplay by slathering feminine hormonal cream all over his  private parts.

Within a short period of time you will find he won’t be as obnoxious and aggressive. His voice will get higher, his junk smaller and his man boobs bigger. Over time you will find that he will develop this annoying habit of wanting to cuddle with you constantly.

Still not satisfied with your situation? Remember he already filled out the divorce papers. Sign them, take everything he has and skip town. Join one of those groups where all the women wear red hats, take lots of cruises and learn to play mahjong.

If you do divorce him, resist the urge to stay in touch with your ex. After all there’s a good chance he will develop cancer from being exposed to all those hormones. He’ll probably want you to take care of him but do not–you took care of him already .

Old Phart

Silver Alert

Dear Old Phart,

I am writing you to help spread the word about “Silver Alerts.” A Silver Alert is triggered when an older American, possibly  with dementia or Alzheimer’s, has wandered away from his or her home. The public is notified through a variety of media about the missing senior and asked to alert the authorities if the senior is seen.

As a number of your readers are Older Americans (a.k.a Old  Pharts) I was hoping you would help me spread the word.

Save Our Seniors (S.O.S.)

Dear S.O.S.,

Than you so much for this information. You have just given me a roadmap for how I  wish to spend my final days. When I am old, decrepit and ready to croak,  I am going to trigger the Senior Alert system in a big way.

Before I check into that big Holiday Inn in the sky, I am going to sneak out of my smelly, vermin infested Medicaid old age home (care center…right).

Heading to the egress, I steal a carton of chocolate milk from the kitchen to rev up my lactose intolerance. Then I hobble out to my  4 cylinder, 265,000 mile, Toyota Tercel  that is rusting in the back parking lot.

Firing up the junkmobile, I head out on the highway.  Gunning her into the passing lane, cruising at a death-defying 35 m.p.h., I place my blinker in perpetual right turn mode to piss off all the honking drivers behind me.

With unrestrained gusto, I chug my carton of chocolate milk, roll up the windows, and make sure the ventilation is on recirculate while I let em rip.

Above me flashes the highway sign “Silver Alert, Old Phart On The Loose. ” Helicopters swirl overhead in a slower speed re-enactment of the O.J. Simpson chase. Then I …

Wait, what? By the time I am a really old phart, all cars will be self driving? And all people- driven cars will have been repossessed and crushed in a  government sponsored buy-back program?

And you say,  the GPS chip implanted in my arm would never allow me to leave my room without two Filipino robot nurses hauling my shriveled ass back to bed? Oh poop, there goes my fantasy. All that’s left now is my lactose intolerance!

Pass the chocolate milk please.


Old Phart