Extra Pies At All Pay Toilets

I woke up early this morning wondering about the traffic. I don't normally think that much about who's driving what where, when, since my commute is about five miles straight down Virginia Beach Blvd, until I get to my work at the death house. In case you did not know, I work where all of the zombies who are bosses above me seem to have the look of the dead in their eyes. Maybe they just have a poor bowel movement every morning. Morning plop plops can cause one to be really sick, unless you know what you're doing. Do you really know what the hell you're doing.

As I laid in bed, I thought that there were no cars on the interstate, but that there were thousands of stolen shopping carts. Stolen from K-Mart, Lowes, Wal-Mart, and lots of others so we can pick our items every morning to deliver to the degenerates who buy from us. Gee...if the cops ever bust a move, wide open into our warehouse, I think we're all going to the hoose-gow. I can see now, outside my cell window, the one with the little bars that look like Liberace's candles, the gallows being prepared for me, not only for stealing and using stolen shopping carts, but for all of my previous and various crimes. Well, gals, all good things gotta come to an end. Or is that beginning?

I got a letter from my Orthodox Jewish sister in Israel last week. I tried to convince her to come home to America, the land of really really cheap Pay toilets (they charge a dollar in Israel...that's the result of State Universal Coverage for Plops and pee). But she is committed to the State Of the Jews, even if it means meeting the President of Iran (his name is not spelled out because I forgot how) in a cage match at the Jerusalem Arena, which is on forth street, near this really bitchin' shul, where they let you praise Jesus, eat, pee in your pants, sit in the back if you're lonely and , well...you do the math, sell Poopsicles, make unleavened bread, and none of the ladies wear bras. My sis really does not approve of this synagogue, but the Israeli government told her if she wants to wrestle that guy from Iran, she'll have to wrestle the women champ of Jerusalem, Bertha Bloomstein.

Bertha is 57, and on the down end of her career, so Angie might have a chance to get her to submit, and then push her head into one of the state toilets. All good stuff.

I'm still worried that one day I'll wake up and the only thing on the road will be little bugs. I'll squash them.

Joe

Here Comes The Election!

The rats now running the White House (not the sleazy kind, but..well yeah, the sleazy kind) are thinking of converting to Quakerism because they hear the mighty mighty voice of God Almighty quaking and beseeching them ( I love to beseech...especially after a good meal, and flap jacks on the toilet) to leave us alone and return this country to the people who maintain it (for real) from the bureaucrats who have stolen it for their own Stalinist aims.

I wonder if even the Democrats who elected this guy think he was ready? Even for the dumb-ass socialism that Mr Obama and his crew have thrown against the wall to see how much will stick. Lots of it seems to be sticking, but, gee whiz, they have ruined a perfectly good wall. Twenty years ago, when the Berlin Wall came down, I really thought that Communism had lost and Capitalism had won. Well, the reds lost, but our people, the ones who couldn't run a pay toilet, but think they can move mountains of capital for the benifit of all have come as close as one of Mama's baked apples to ruining capitalism for the United States. God! And just last week, Castro (on his fifth or sixth death bed) said that the "Cuban Model" hasn't even worked for Cuba.

Meanwhile, back at Camp Barack, our government does everything it can to take a perfectly good economic system and pis it away in the sink, of all places. When we first opened our Pay Toilets in Downtown Norfolk, I didn't have the automation system up yet. So I had an old Hatian woman collect the nickles and dimes until we were totally up and ready to go. I would trust HER more with the government of the United States than I do him.

Now is our chance. Sure, we gave the Republicans the whole thing to play with in 1994. They had a contract, and PROMISED to lessen the amount of government in our lives. In every way possible. By all and any means possible (I don't think they would have firebombed the Capitol, however...why burn down your own neighborhood?)

Now they want another chance. But there's a catch. The Tea Partiers, or neo-libertarians, if you will, are holding their feet to the fire. A mighty awesome fire, that only God could put asunder (sometimes I get into my black preacher mood). The Tea Party, for the most part, thanks, is after one thing. Stop the growth of this behemoth, and then read the constitution to those remaining politicians who don't get it. And then move to reduce the size of the state.

Can this happen? I don't know. Once folks gets their goodies from the government (health care) even when they know the moral decadence and smell of what it is, they are often loath to give them up. I lived in Santa Monica, California, years ago when they established rent control. I went to rallies and meetings to try and avoid this blot on freedom. But we lost, and the "People's Republic Of Santa Monica" put a gun in the face of landlords, and said "this is how much we'll pay, and shudup yo face" Or words to that effect. And as much as I was opposed to this confiscation of property rights, poor little me breathed a sigh of relief. I could not afford where I was living then. Now maybe I could.

What a sad sick day it was for me. But, look, you little feller's here, once the president goes on a shopping spree and drops off whatever we need, truth be told, we ain't gonna give it back.

Stop them now. While we still have a chance to be proud of our nation.

Joe Postove

Day Of Atonement

Today for all of my Jewish brethren, it is Yom Kipper, or the day of sweating to the oldies. WE all go to shul, sit and stand, and then sit, but stand more than sit. And we pray God to allow us another year on Earth before he slams us like that Roadrunner did that coyote. That was one of the first cartoon parables. The Roadrunner was God, and Wylie Coyote was just another slob trying to get to heaven before the anvil got to him.

I'm not in shul today. I won't lie and say that my Orthodox synagogue installed personal computers alongside the tallis, and siddurs....know what I mean, goyim honey? I'm at the library with all of the non-Jews practicing web-surfing and trying to remember the dirty pictures. If you don't have a good memory, what good are they, huh?

Besides, and God forgive me, but there are time when I think this "Day Of Atonement" should at least apply to our heavenly father as much as it does to us. It was not we who brought forth unto us little'uns here Hurricane Katrina to New Orleans, or a tsunami to all those hapless folks in helpless land. Jesus (not for use on Yom Kipper) what do think God is thinking when he SEES you living on a speck in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. You're asking for some mighty smiting, no?

One day, and that day may never come, we may see the Lord walk into a synagogue on Yom Kipper and apologize. Not for everything, but for not allowing the powerful peeps of this wonderful world run it as we see fit, and only sticking his nose in to foment wars, pestilence, disease, and all of his others goods. Yes, I do realize that God created us, and the world. But he took a hike. But not far enough to let us run our affairs as we see fit. He was always around so that we could always count on some evil dude stuff. I love the Lord. He created me and everyone I love. And my planet. That's plenty.

We'll take it from here.

Joey

To The Showers

The most difficult among the first things required of eighth graders in high school is gym class. Because, after gym, we all take showers together, naked, with everything that had up till now been seen only by God'Me, and is on display for all the horrid boys to look at.

We were all about 13 around this time. And to most 13 year old boys has come the devil of puberty (as I saw her then) and we were on our way to manhood (no manhood jokes, please). I started to "grow" when I was about eleven, and it scared the shit out me. I had been content for all of my life up until then to look like a girl, with a worm. This was normal, the way God intended, I suppose, for me to live out my life, hairless and small was my comfort zone. No one, not Dad (though I should have guessed something was up since I had seen him naked, and he was fully equipped) told me what was coming, and certainly not Mom. When old Gus the puberty angel stuck his wand up my ass, I was not less than flabbergasted.

I cried about it too. It was the end of a good, long eleven year run of boyhood. And now here were hairs growing everywhere (mostly around my dick, for God's sake!) and I noticed my penis getting bigger. This, I was unsure about. It looked nicer. But how long was it was going to grow? And when would it stop?! I was, as you can see, in a panic. I had no one to talk to about it. I suffered greatly.

So, when high school came around and naked showers with other boys were the order of the day, I just about fainted. One kid, Doug, took the first shower in his underpants. But as stupid and ugly as my man-boy set looked, showering in your underwear just was too stupid. Even for me, a truly stupid and confused person.

Gym ended that first day. The boys piled into the locker room and without even looking around to see who might be looking, they started peeling off their clothes with abandon. This perplexed me. They were mostly Christian, but I wondered also, had they seen naked people before? Maybe even a naked girl? I'd seen pictures of course. But these animals were heading towards the showers like they were wearing Sunday go to meeting clothes. Me, my dick, my hair pulled a towel around my waist. What what! What what! I could have run howling and screaming home to Mom. But what would I tell her? That I was the only boy (including underpants boy) not to shower after gym? Mothers don't understand that.

Let me pull back two years for a moment. When I started the process to manhood, Mom caught me crying in my bedroom all about it. She asked what was wrong. I told her and even let her have a very small peek at my problem that was crucifying me. She said that all boys go through that and not to worry about it. That was the only conversation about this, and, well, I did feel a certain comfort in knowing that Mom knew I was dying of puberty. But it didn't help me with the other boys. No one could see my stuff, ever! And when I started to have sex (I knew all about that by then) all I would have to do was squeeze my cousin's bosoms, and then I would get that "good feeling". I looked forward to a full sex life of feeling girls up, pulling their panties off to see what was in them, merging with bosoms, and all of the other regular stuff. Most of all I really looked forward to bosoms, bosoms, bosom!

Back at school; I was now naked with a towel covering me, while all of the other boys ran to the showers. Gee, it was like they were getting a birthday party, or double allowence, not forever exposing their goodies for all the world to see.

Then I noticed the great variety. I came later to understand that at the age of 13 there is much difference between how far along young males have come. Some looked like they were seven years old. Nothing there. Nothing to worry about. Others, the same age, about, looked like my Dad, some even more advanced. Oh God, this worried me even more. I was just me. Not much, but some. But standing there in the damp lockeroom by myself was drawing pointing, and "hey Joe, what's the matter, you scared, you pussy". I didn't want to be naked in front of all of those stupid boys. My stuff belong to me and God, and was not to be put on public display, like a zoot suit, jangling along the sidewalk looking for a good time. Oh, God! What if my penis decided, on its own, with no input from me that it wanted to have a good time. I wasn't a fag. But I could get a boner like playing guitar.

I did the best I could. I draped the towel along my shoulders, down to my waist, covering, but yet not covering, got to a shower, took off the towel, and did my thing. I was mortified. But thankfully, no one else seemed to be paying attention to my horror.

I seemed to be starting a pattern.

Joey Postove

Nine Years Ago

It seems like yesterday. And truly it seems like one hundred years ago. The world and everyone in it has changed. Some for good. Not all.

I woke up that morning at about nine. I turned on the "Today Show" and already they were talking about the first plane that had crashed into one of the towers. "Jesus Christ" was my first thought, not terrorism. It was eerie, but not terribly disconcerting. Then, almost in slow motion, I saw another plane. Dumb me thought it might be a New York Fire Department plane to shower down some of the flames. They couldn't have done that anyway.

Then it crashed into the second tower. And everyone knew. And everyone wanted to join up and nuke the guys behind this outrage. I was instant messaging with my friend in Brooklyn who was at work. She went outside and could see the flames and smoke from there. Maddie was very scared. And angry.

Who was it? Why? And what do we do now. How?

Maybe it wasn't such a long time ago.

Joe

40 Years Ago

There was no junior high school near my house in 1970, so when we finished the seventh grade we went right on to the high school, about a mile away, as eighth graders. It was like going from the county jail to the federal penitentiary. And, boy, was I scared.

More scared then the idea that I am much closer now to my first face lift, drinking myself to death or crying my eyes out because I am so old than I am to those days. Forty years ago this week, I was 13. And I thought I had the rest of my life to live. Which is true no matter how you look at it. I could have been hit by a school bus at the age of 14, and that would have been the rest of my life. I've always been good with numbers.

Eighth graders were below vermin in a high school. We came into this important piece of knowledge on our very first day. In mine, Princess Anne High in Virginia Beach, we were not even freshmen. Our little unmolded brains and bodies were "pre-freshmen. And we were at the mercy of all those who made life mostly miserable for us.

I, a pussy, was savaged. Spit on, stomped on, smashed against lockers, only the occasional teacher would come to our aid. Otherwise, it was spit, squashed, and smashed. It's not that we didn't try. I would run as fast as my fat little bar-mitzvahed legs would carry me, around corners, up and on the bus home, right behind the driver (drivers were tougher than teachers), run, run, run, away from the bullies and try to eat our lunch without having it crammed down our throats. Friends, I thought I had five years of this to look forward to. But not to be.

My eighth grade English teacher, Mrs. Huling, a lovable, chubby gal, who also sponsored our class (of 1975...Jesus, was I going to have to join the service NOW to get out of here?) saved me, at least part of the day from the ravages of the Klein brothers, David Stewert, and others who I believed had made it their life's work to make mine horrible. But I said I was a pussy.

I was also an eighth grader who did not realize that the eighth grade does not last forever. Going home in those bleak days of the fall of 1970 with spittle, smash and squash marks, and no hope of ever making it over the wall were disconcerting. I couldn't tell my Mom. She would have called the principal. And then I would have been killed. I just put up with it, until, amazingly, it faded into ninth grade, when we were now freshmen. And we were to be reckoned with by those puny, sick, and pussy laden eighth graders. We were now men! And though I was still a wus, I was a ninth grader too.

I was somebody.

Joe Postove

Hurricane Earl

Hurricane Earl is baring down on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, and may give we here in the south eastern quadrant of Virginia a twirl for our money.

But that's not why I'm writing. I found mustard stains in THREE of my pay toilets downtown this morning. When I changed the rule about snacking while plop ploping, I expected those who did eat while shitting to take it easy and be neat and clean.

I don't want to come down hard on you ladies and gents who patronize my business. I'm so grateful, I'm on my knees here, and begging for more business whenever you need to go a one and a two. But we gotta keep it clean, men! I have never discriminated against all of the different types of people (trans, regular, gay, Jewish, crippled, and so on) and therefor have always expected you guys to keep it clean in the toilets while eating a hot dog, hamburger, malted milk, easy bake oven goods, and other assorted goodies from our chuck-wagon.

But for God's sake! I came to open up this morning, and found not only the mustard stains, but boogers, spilled milk, banana pudding (gee...I think that was banana pudding) and left over wieners and hamburgers all over the place. One of my workers even slipped on a piece of I don't know what it was, and hurt her back. While riding with her in the ambulance to the hospital, I promised, that if she should die, I would take care of her seven kids. I would, but I wouldn't have the slightest idea how to raise them. And, look folks, is a pay toilet the right kind of atmosphere for children? Even though we do have two pay stalls for the kiddies on Saturday mornings. It's built like a merry-go-round and the kids can slide off whenever they're done. But we don't like them hanging around. Especially near the hermaphrodite stalls. They wouldn't understand, and if you guys keep messing up the stalls and I gotta keep cleaning them, I won't have time to explain all this crap to them. So, please, have mercy on my soul and body, and I hope to wake up tomorrow morning.

I forgot. If Earl sweeps into Norfolk, and knocks down our pee pens, I have gotten permission from the Chief Of Police for you to pee and shit in the river.

Have a nice weekend.

Joey