New Year's

Saturday is New Year's, and so what? If I wanna celebrate New Year's on for God's sake July Fuckth, I'll do it. I play by my rules and the new year comes when I say, for me.

Those of you who keep up with this blog know that 2010 was not the best of years for me, but who am I to complain? I saw a naked woman, about 40ish, pushing a wheel burrow full of cement over by the gas works. I think they're putting in a new candy machine. I hope they have Heath Bars. For without Heath Bars, no candy machine can rightly call itself by thouest name, saith the Lord. Plus a Yoo-Hoo machine like the one the have over at the gas station across the street from my apartment. The one with the bell ropes.

I don't have a TV now, but if I did, I'd be there with all of you watching Dick Clark (The world's oldest man) gum in the new year from his wheel chair in Palm Springs. He's not able to count down all the way these days, since his stroke, so when they get to four, he'll hand it off to Brian Secrest (is he gay?) who will do 4, 3, 2, 1, and let go of the rope that holds the Times Square Ball up in the air, and let it crash into the crowd, killing thousands.

Probably not, at least not on TV. Maybe after everyone goes home, he'll drop it on Dick and his wife, and see how they make out.

Cancer, back problems, stinky job, smaller pee-pee, and some good stuff made up 2010. But I would rather do 1975 again. But this time without the acne.

So those of you who plan to make it the next two days to the new year, let me take this opportunity to wish you a yada yada yada. And God bless us all, every one.

See you in 2011. If I don't get my hand stuck in the candy machine at the gas station across the street from my house trying to steal a Heath Bar.

Stalls will be open on your big ass day. Just make sure if you need to use my facilities, that your big ass ain't too big for my nice fur seats.

Shalom, Dagwood.

Christmas

I'll be open for Christmas this year! Wide open like a prostitute on a warm summer's day. Open so lovely that Christian and Jew alike will swarm onto the downtown sector of Norfolk to see me open.

So I'm open. What do I have to prove now, big deal? I remember watching the "CBS Evening News" in the 1970's on a Christmas night and who should I see doing the news on this holy day, but Walter himself. Jesus Christ! I didn't see Him doing the news but old Walter was open to the public. He did have a nice Christmas, however. Leslie Stall (she was named after my toilet business) was underneath the desk playing with his journalistic integrity. And so it goes.

Christmas is, as you Christians know, is a nutty time for Jews. We have Hanukkah, and the Ladies Club Annual Daisy Chain, not to mention crucifying a member of our congregation, in honor of Christ, who belongs to us, even if we had to let him go on technicalities. Don't misunderstand me (I do that well enough myself) but Jesus had all of his Jewish bonifides, so we let him go cus he associated too much with gentiles. We can allow a lot of things, but we have to watch our tail when it comes to you people (I didn't mean you).

Also in December, I have my annual birthday celebration at the Vatican (the Pope ever so nicely took me by the hand last week and showed me the basement where they have the world's largest collection of porn. He tried to steer me towards the gay porn, but I pulled away before he could corner me, and I ran and ran and ran, until I could run no more. Boy was I tired. But I found the good stuff myself, and stuffed myself with candy bars and Yoo-Hoos from the snack machine in the Vatican basement. I did something else too. But I am so ashamed. And now I am blind. I hope God or Jesus will hold me in their arms and if they can't restore my sight, then at least array a host of snacks on my bed, back home, and let me eat all I want, or until I vomit.


No one can say I don't get all I can out of Christmas. I like a nice homo (whoops, I mean Homey) Christmas, and my friends, I do wish all of you who celebrate the holiday, A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS!

And those of you who don't, well, just close the blinds, turn out the lights, and for God's sake don't answer the door. It may be a Christian!

Joey

PS...This will be my last blog until after Christmas because the Library is closed, and while the toilets will be open, the phones are double the price during the holidays. I stick it to the heathens, tra la la la la, la la, la, la.

See you next week, I love you all so much!

SWAK

My Birthday Was Yesterday

Not to belabor the point, but yesterday I celebrated my entry into my 55th year on this planet. Oh God. I never meant to be this old. When I was 12, I thought 15 was ridiculous, when I was 25, 40 was disgusting. I mean really, really disgusting. The idea of making pup pup to a 40 year old woman would help me vomit. Which wasn't all bad of course. When I was 25 I ate some weird things. But a 40 year old woman? Aren't they supposed to be dead or something?

Now, when I do my pitiful little bit of grocery shopping at Cheapie's (it's next to my transgender pay toilet downtown) I find myself looking at 60 year old women (today's 60 is really 40...right) with verve. This is insanity, but I look at 60 year old bosoms as worthy of my mouth and hands. Indeed, I am outraged at me. In the past, I would have dismissed them as trash, and thrown not only the bosoms, but all of the lady's sex organs down the chute.

My own sex organs are not what they used to be (I have only the one...right?) In my wretched past, I could have walked down the street full of the sexual excitement I craved but rarely got. Now (I know you really don't want to hear this, so don't read it out loud, for goodness sake. Who am I, God?) I can go days and not even think about my most wonderous of buddies living in the prime real estate that was once between my legs. Now he just lives in semi-retirement, only knocking at my door once or twice a week to see if he can come out and play.

But turning 54 is not all about sex. One does think of his mortality, naturally. At 40 I thought I had the rest of my life before me. Now, I just think that I have the rest of my life before me. If a stroke, heart attack, cancer, city bus, choking, being beaten to death, shot in the head or gut, earthquake, and all of the other various assorted ways I'll may die don't get me, I may live to 94, still here writing my blog, checking my lottery tickets, and with my balls down to knees.

I need a drink.

Joey

The Horrible Wretched Cold...And My Birthday

I was driving through the tunnel to get to the next town over this morning on my appointed rounds, and I was so roughed up from the "feels like" eight degree cold and the nice warm van (I turned the heat all the way up...probably to 100) that I couldn't see straight. Sideways, I was alright. But straight seeing, I was all fouled up.

I want it to be warmer. Dear God, as we approach the birthday of your son, please consider Norfolk, Virginia as deserving of more heat, especially when I go to work, and also so that when I go through the tunnel I can see straight ahead, as sideways looking would only make me hit the wall, and the man in the tunnel that waves to me whenever I go through, would have to scrape me off of the sides, and this would make him unhappy.

Norfolk is a southern town, Lord. So when you are adjusting the universal thermostat, please have Jesus set us on 72 degrees. I realize that many of my fellow Jews are in Miami, but we little Jews in Norfolk need your Good and Godly help.

Say...Lord, is Moses still alive in Heaven? And when Santa flies right over my house again this year, please inform him, that Jews have feelings too.
If just a card, we would feel that the Christian fellows who run the world and universe haven't forgotten that good old Jesus was a Heeb.

God Bless.

My birthday is this Friday. I'll be 39 (Christ! My hands won't let me lie to God...OK, I'll be 54. But I look 39. Let's just say I'm 39, just for fun.) I would like a new computer, some cash (small bills), a new TV set, and a big block of cheese. Oh, how I love cheese. I could suck it right out of the cow, and shake it up inside me, and I'm a cheeseman! Also, peace on earth, and goodwill toward men (and girls between 18 and 60 with big tits).

I'll write Santa for my Christmas goodies. I hope you'll take care of my birthday list.

Thanks, Lord.

Joey In Norfolk

John

Tomorrow, the eighth of December is the 30th anniversary of the murder of John Lennon.

I had it in my mind to write something poignant, and long, with remembrances of what John was to me, and how the whole world changed after he died.

I can't do it. I miss him. And I love him. And like the world after John, I am entirely tired.

PEACE NOW

Joe

My Pants Are Getting Smaller

First, I don't think it is any of you, here at the blog, who have been messing around with my pants. So, you're fine. Just don't touch my pants when they are near your house.

My number one pants (the pair I love and cherish, and wear over to the gas station across the street from my apartment) were hanging in my closet yesterday when I went for them, and I noticed that they were a little tight. I know I've been trying to save money by eating cheap eats at malt shops, gas stations, burger palaces, machines where you pull on a knob to get choco cookies and other convenient goodies. And perhaps I have put on a pound here and there, maybe more ass pounds than, say, hand or feet pounds, but I don't think my pants got that tight just from a little overeating on my part.

I had to use the ladies pay toilet downtown yesterday, because the men's was slippery, and Chester, the clean up dude, hadn't come in yet. Now, as most of you know, inside the ladies (this is the heterosexual ladies toilet, by the way) stall is a really good snack machine, with ice cream bars, extra crispy fried chicken, Yoo Hoo's, and lots of other fine chops to whet anyone's appetite while they're waiting to shit inside a heterosexual ladies toilet. Oh, yeah. The Lesbian toilet was also free, but I know what goes on inside there, and I was afraid. Gee, isn't that strange? I own the damn thing, and I'm afraid to use one of my own stalls. Weird world. The gay toilet was in use, as always, and I don't bother my gay brothers while they are doing what they do best. But I don't usually eat supper in my toilets, downtown. For a good, clean meal, try my family stalls at the beach.

Back to my pants. They are just too tight. Especially around the crotch, and tushy-meat. And, as you all know, those are my two most important areas, in or out of my pants. I did have a beer and some pizza while on the pot (you have to order out for pizza though. Maybe we should get an oven, huh?) and my pants were around my feet while I grunted just as hard as my tiny little voice could grunt. I grunted, and then grunted harder, and harder, and harder. Then a knock on the door came, and the pizza boy was here. Well, of course I was embarrassed, but what could I do? I unlocked the door and let him in. Naturally, I covered my personal goodies with a copy of the Ladies Home Companion.

As I sat there, half naked in my "Mrs. Toilet" (that's what we call the can for married ladies and where I was having a nice time just crapping away, without a care in the world) I contemplated my life. And hoped for better days. And used the phone to order some new pants.

I gave the pizza boy a slice of pizza and a drink of water, because I didn't have any change for a tip. What could I do? When a grown man doesn't have enough change for a decent tip for the delivery boy while sitting on the toilet, he does the best he can.

The end.


Joey