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Did Trump Promise Kim He Could Meet Elvis?

Did Trump Promise Kim He Could Meet Elvis?

(Pyongyang) Donald Trump reportedly told Kim Jong Un that he could arrange a meeting between the North Korean leader and singer Elvis Presley. The pledge, which was never put in writing, outlined a foggy scenario that stunned top dogs in Asia and put relentless pressure on the White House staff to cough up the details of the alleged get-together.

It was not clear if the North Koreans had figured out that Elvis passed back in August or 1977, seven years before the Korean strongman was born. They have remained mum on the issue since it was first suggested back in September. Political analysts in South Florida fear that the much maligned peace talks may have been terminated due to a loss of trust.

It is common knowledge that Kim and Donald, in an apparent departure from national security, consult with the same psychologist, a very secretive little man in Geneva who, fearing for his future well being, was not comfortable commenting on private sessions with either of the powerful world leaders. However a therapist in his employ hinted that any madness detected had much to do with hair.

Or does Trump think he’s Elvis?

“Donald and Kim certainly exhibit interesting hair. That is for sure,” said the aide who begged animosity. “I am not privy to any conversations but I have observed what can only be called obsession with hairdos. Kim’s locks look to be a poor copy of styles popular in the NBA while the President of the United States walks around in what can only be called pre-pubescent tresses.”

Both men sport what many barbers say are fake haircuts, the scissor men contending that both men are bald. No one knows what the elaborate bouffants are hiding within the skulls of these two privileged bullies. Trump prefers big hair while the Korean boss uses pomade gel made in the Soviet Union. It is believed that Trump colors his hair while Jong Un, who is quite a bit younger, does not.

Oddly enough recently exhumed memoirs conjure up long-held views that The King may have entertained fantasies about his hair as well.

Getting back to the preposterous rendezvous, insiders outside the White House insist that their burger-chomping demagogue never uttered the offer denying their boss ever cross-referenced Johnny Cash, Billy Holiday, Bob Marley, James Brown or the Big Bopper over the course of the negotiations with Kim.

Meanwhile Trump blamed Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama who he said were soft on immigration, communism and household spreads.

“Why all the hate?” asked the President on his way out to the driving range.

-Kashmir Horseshoe

Trousers Falling Down Syndrome Cripples Millions

Trousers Falling Down Syndrome Cripples Millions

Curse of ages or just gravitational pull?

“I’m a workin’ man Lawd, and a good un’ too. Why me and the boys built some of the finest roads in Georgia…”

  Chain gang song, 1894.

There are plenty of theories as to the instability of older men’s trousers – why their pants often fall down when they are engaged in physical labor. Too much belly and too little butt are common explanations as are wardrobe malfunctions and geometrical inattentiveness. Unsecured restraints have been linked to fit, level of exertion, material used and even to misdeeds in past lives. Most men, and a surprisingly small number of women, have experienced this bothersome status even if they don’t like to talk about it much.

As part of our ongoing mid-depth coverage of life’s classic annoyances we present the final segment of “Get Over It Big Mama and Little Daddy” where we dissect the often sensitive issue of TFDS*.

These men could use some suspenders, (also known as suit braces), long strips of fabric worn over their shoulders with the purpose of holding up trousers. They attach to common  pants with either suspender clips or suspender buttons.

The average older man suffers more than a temporary  inconvenience and a mark against self confidence when, while stacking wood, bucking hay or simply carrying groceries, his pants drop down, sometimes all the way to his bony knees. Is he less virile than his fellows? Is he still a viable force in attempts to complete beneficial physical movement? Is he still marginally attractive to women?

Belts that used to work are often abandoned at the waist. They used to function pretty well in the younger days but now they are worthless and better used around the neck or as visible threats to misbehaving grandchildren.

Experts say that daily squats help relieve the downward trend facing the older yet energized mini-project manager. Surely he can practice his primary gymnastics out of eyeshot of the more judgmental segments of society and reach true enlightenment. Walking is good too, they say, although it promotes friction which can lead to an unstable relationship with ones’ hips (see hip hop).

Some foods beneficial in creating a larger, almost designer butt, promote side effects like bloating and skin irritation. Directing the destination of calories from sweets and starch does not pose a problem since these energy values go right to the rotund region and cause many people to resemble hard-boiled eggs.

Physicians on loan from the prestigious Mao Clinic could not agree on all the symptoms much less a corpse of treatment. They remain united in the philosophy that higher elevations are unjustly blanketed with superstition since the mountain dweller’s pants do not fall any farther than those of an amateur lawn mower at sea level or a rookie retiree looking to pass the time more productively in the safety of his own backyard.

“Hey, it’s get our priorities straight here,” said surgical bellwether Marcelo MacTanife, whose herbalist tendencies landed him in the Carcel de Naturales back during the Hickenlooper Dynasty. “We have people with credit cards waiting for treatment and yet we focus on these whiners. Why can’t they stay inside and watch television or buy better underwear to prevent  public humiliation? Why do you think so many popular cartoons characters appear without pants despite moral scrutiny and exclusion from the better restaurants? They may be only ink, but they often exhibit the classic freedoms that many of us only pine for under the lilac trees.”

Efforts to reach out to rappers, who originally legitimized the pants at half mast culture (Cultura de Trosieres Hermanos les Banderas Cortas), have fallen short short since urban Blacks no longer practice this odd behavior, yielding to its popularity in among White kids in the suburbs. These pathetic parrots can afford better boxers. Most interviewed said they had no interest in discussing the pitfalls of rural males of any color.

“We are not and have never been prepared to bore the already shell-shocked masses with a lengthy commentary on belly to butt ratios and a complex physics addendum,” said Dr. Ginny Export, who earned her degree in Divinity by reading cereal boxes and amassing the largest collection antique kneeling pews east of The Vatican.

Most people realize that the misuse of suspenders can be dangerous. Our reader is reminded that strap accessories are not intended as ropes, lariats, extension cords or skeletal devices. An elderly friend of ours recently spent three days tied up in his suspenders before the trash specialists responded to his pathetic pleas, found him and set him free.

As writer Robert Bacal puts it “I know. I know. There are bigger problems in the world. There are probably bigger problems in my own little life space. But damn it, I’m exhausted at the end of each day, after all the pulling and tugging at my trousers to keep them covering my SpongeBob boxer shorts from showing.” He continues his rant:

“My pants fall down. All my pants fall down. My jeans fall down. My sweat pants fall down. I tighten my belt until my belly flops over my waist band. My ankles hurt. I can no longer breathe. No go. That works for a few minutes, and then down they go. I’m old but I’m still fast. I still have the reflexes. So I’ve managed to avoid embarrassment and arrest so far. But only so far.”

Research repeatedly indicates that sitting on one’s easy chair, drinking beer and watching football avoids the same adverse slippage or and rarely presents the unsuspecting “laborer” with any chronic suspender maneuver. It may be the most logical course of action for the majority of aging handymen or affluent do-it-yourselfers.

The Suspender Line was first crossed by the radical thinker, Dr. G. Woelk of Cal Amari Institute. While noting that elk and moose almost never suffer from pants falling down syndrome (PFDS), he wrestled with conflicting maxims then tediously developed a postulate that embraces three realities: Gravity, the horizontal nature of the gluteus maximus, and padding above the belt. His somewhat juvenile, though grudgingly accepted formula is: C12H22O11.


A distinct curve, that follows a similar pattern as the Horn of Africa, accentuates gravitational pull. As one can clearly perceive from the above graph it has more to do with age than beauty.

Without losing sight of the social ills associated with this impropriety, diminished productivity at the workplace threatens to snuff out any of the scant progress chronicled since the election of Ronald Reagan (The Great Suspender).

Flat butt – culo fattee puffe proteges will be pleased with their elevated status while the great unwashed may continue to pull their pants up at every turn, privately complaining that “My ass isn’t holding up the rest of me.”

Yes, knuckle-dragging elements, still hinged to drawstring dogmas and fairy tales about wind resistance have been thoroughly discredited. Gas is not a help or hindrance in keeping pants in place, nor is spontaneous seduction.

And, as poet Jennings Lederhosen put it: We shall soon bear witness after bars close at night, to fraudulent boasts unmasked in dawn’s light.

EGGSACTLY. Whether you show up in clean bibs, kilts, a union suit or even if you put on your clothes with a pitchfork (insert canned laughter here) you can’t fight gravity. It lurks in every life, at every turn. It affects every gender. As one outspoken female source in Ouray explained it: “I already wear a damn bra. I’m not wearing suspenders too!”

In closing, writing stupid articles does not affect my own pants to waist status. Rarely do my pants fall down when I am sitting at my wormwood desk drinking a tumbler of Absinthe and coke from a tart filet of Calabrian wineskin. On weekends, papaya-laced vodka concocted from smart wool socks and the bark from a seeping hogshead bush (old English) goes a long way toward cementing incredulous beliefs that my gov’ment is competent and that it cares for my welfare.

PFDS is most common where most of the work is done with more progressive states often undressing the issues before the entire population is contaminated.

If nothing else, at least credit this account for not subjecting sound byte consumers to indiscreet photos of plumber’s crack or quick fix CBD (chronic butt delirium). In addition, we did not employ the word buttocks in this windy epistle, (preferring to let a sleeping marmot lie), and in crisp recognition that buttocks has become a fleshy target of standup comedians since Lenny Bruce and Caligula.

Issues to watch for now or in the immediate future: 1. the trusting reach 2. the two bag free carry 3. the Vaudeville stance 4. the hand to chainsaw drop 5. the alley-oop  6. the bend and drop  7. the fly tie ascension. We will discuss these curious standings in our next episode.


“Your article was amusing and informative but my pants still fall down all the time. Despite its impotent recommendations, impulsive gramar and imprudent advice I carry it with me everywhere I go.”   

– Mr. Spleenjeans, Eldredge, Colorado

“Try duct tape. Try dynamite. Don’t be such a putz. If those don’t work consult Dip Advisor.” 

– Peg Slacks, Gunnison.

Elliptically speaking, the right angle of one’s derrière’ must be more than the compilation of belly pressure multiplied by the metric distance from the belt to the shoes. It’s quite simple really. In light of this, your article was nothing but elitist, scholastic double-talk.”

– Wolfgang Pockette, LaSal Junction.

Paisas, the Mountain People of the Colombian Cafetera

Paisas, the Mountain People of the Colombian Cafetera


The Departments of Antioquia, Caldas, Quindío and Risaralda identify as Paisa. These mountains are home to the hearty coffee-growers (and sometimes gold miners) who have called this spectacular place their home for centuries. Proud, smart, funny and generous, these friendly folks might check you out for a moment before smiling an approval.

In this respect they resemble the mountain people from the Rockies.

Always time for tinto

They take pride in colorful chivas. They don straw fedoras and ruanas, dote on their Andalusian horses and are certain their rum is the best on the planet. Everywhere the Paisas congregate tinto is the fare and ample time is set aside to sip Caldas or Medellin Rum. Years ago the two rums were distinct to two regions but now they are available in most of country. Residents claimed their particular rum was far and above the best, yet they coveted the other rum, you know, the one they couldn’t get down at their corner cafe.

“No prisa. No Prisa. No rush. Don’t hurry life,” they say in a variety of ways that culminate as a distinct language of its own. One day I was overcharged for a beer in the high altitude city of Manizales. My response was a resounding Ave Maria! at the escalated price. The kid behind the bar was surprised that I had such a dramatic command of the local lingo and a little embarrassed that he had tried to squeeze another $30,000 COP out of this gringo. He dropped the price to the usual one dollar, his hand still stuck in the cookie jar. I left the full fiscal modification as a tip.

Speaking Castilian is fun but talking Paisa is even better, if a bit challenging at times. Here is some of the more prevalent slang one might hear on the street:

chevere – nice, beautiful

charro – funny

la farra – the big party

pato – a stupid guy, a putz

guaro – short for aguardiente, an anise-flavored liquor literally translated as firewater

amanar – to be comfortable

bacano – an outstanding or pleasant situation

chimba – cool, nice

pola – beer

parce – dude

sizas – yes

Que mas? Literally What more? Translated as What’s up?

Uttered the morning after a night of drinking: No vuelvo a tomar! (I’ll never go back to drinking) to which the answer is usually Ja oilo (a kind of “I can’t believe it or “Hello? Wake up to reality”) from the Basques, a far-flung population well represented in Paisaland.

You’ll make more friends yakking in Paisa than in asking questions about Pablo Escobar, cocaine or civil wars. Have some respect for feelings here. Try not to be a pato and remember your own national dirty laundry is out there swinging in the breeze as well.

Now that we can talk…let’s eat!

Bandeja de Paisa. Desert anyone?

By far the most popular dish here is Bandeja de Paisa, an extravagant yet customary dish (see photo) for campesinos and moradores urbanos (country folk or city dwellers). It consists of carne molida (ground beef), avocados, morcilla (black pudding), chicharron (fried pork belly), chorizo, platano maduro (ripe plantains), beans and rice, and a vigilant arepa, all toped off with un huevo frito (a fried egg) and hogao (a delicious Colombian Criollo sauce). Buen provecho!

Keep it up and you’ll look like one of Colombian artist, Botero’s sculpted fatsos in no time at all.

A diverse musical experience graces the coffee region with salsa, merengue and cumbia on the dance card.

It’s difficult to say whether anyone is in the dancing mood after such a feast but it’s all waiting in the wings in the Land of 1000 Rhythms. Salsa, merengue and cumbia lead the pack. Favorite local pop musicians include Juanes and Lucas Arnau from Medellin, Andres Cabus from the coastal city of Barranquilla and Dolcey Gutierrez, a concertina virtuoso also from the Caribbean coast. The loco Gutierrez video “Pasame la lengua por los huevos” should not be missed.

Although these latter two entertainers are not really Paisas please don’t tell anyone here. Gutierrez explains it all in his rendition of “Ron por todo el mundo” which really doesn’t need further translation.

-Kevin Haley

Colombians Wake Up The Baby Jesus

(Jardin) While enthusiastically celebrating Christmas, my neighbors here have succeeded in waking the Baby Jesus from his slumber. The noise, somewhat deafening at times, began on the 24th and continued well into the night only to be continued early the next day.

“The only reason there was any peace on the morning of the birth was because most of the people were either in church or behind closed doors hiding from the local priest who counts heads in the pews,” said Pilar Chevere who takes to hiding in caves during the holiday season (aka “the most wonderful time of the year”).

In addition to the rumba, church bells chimed loudly; leading the town’s agnostics to blame the entire incident on the intrusive and poorly timed ecclesiastical ding-dongs.

The parents of the child, Joseph and Mary, allegedly from nearby Ciudad Bolivar, were not particularly happy about the turn of events but they said their son was muy tranquilo and that he was coaxed back to sleep with traditional carioles in both Hebrew and Spanish.

Three Wise Men, who arrived in town today, marveled at the attentiveness of such a small infant. They had missed the actual birth due to the fact that they were visiting several very profitable children’s prisons near the US-Mexican frontier. They had initially feared he might be incarcerated in one of them.

Gold, frankincense, myrrh and earplugs, given to the baby as baptismal gifts, caused quite a stir in this coffee town while farther north these commodities finished well on Wall Street sending the daily stocks index through the roof. Although some 20% of the children in the US do not get enough to eat the economy is booming.

The visibly worn out parents, exhausted after the long trip from Medellin, asked for quiet, hoping that things would settle down after the New Year.

-Dolores Alegria

Many plan to leave decorations up all year

(Manana) Many residents here say they will leave their Christmas lights up until next holiday season despite wavering public opinion and long-held traditions to the contrary.

“It’s just easier to leave everything where it is than monkey with lights, wreaths and even Christmas trees,” quipped one reveler whose yard features three Santa Clauses, eleven elves and eight tiny reindeer. “Back in the days of real trees this was an impossibility but thanks to chemical advances in the petroleum industry we now have fake trees that do just as well in the living room as in the closet.”

It was not known if these improvements would affect county tax appraisals and property values soon to be established in early 2020.

– Fred Zeppelin

One Christmas Eve

Standing over the hot stove cooking supper, the colored maid, Arcie, was very tired. Between meals today, she had cleaned the whole house for the white family she worked for, getting ready for Christmas tomorrow. Now her back ached and her head felt faint from sheer fatigue. Well, she would be off in a little while, if only the Missus and her children would come on home to dinner. They were out shopping for more things for the tree that stood all ready, tinsel-hung and lovely in the living room, waiting for its candles to be lighted.

Arcie wished she could afford a tree for Joe. He’d never had one yet, and it’s nice to have such things when you’re little. Joe was five, going on six. Arcie, looking at the roast in the white folks’ oven, wondered how much she could afford to spend tonight on toys. She only got seven dollars a week, and four of that went for her room and the landlady’s daily looking after Joe while Arcie was at work.

“Lord, it’s more’n a notion raisin’ a child,” she thought.

She looked at the clock on the kitchen table. After seven. What made white folks so darned inconsiderate? Why didn’t they come on home here to supper? They knew she wanted to get off before all the stores closed. She wouldn’t have time to buy Joe nothin’ if they didn’t hurry. And her landlady probably wanting to go out and shop, too, and not be bothered with little Joe.

“Dog gone it!” Arcie said to herself. “If I just had my money, I might leave the supper on the stove for ’em. I just got to get to the stores fo’ they close.” But she hadn’t been paid for the week yet. The Missus had promised to pay her Christmas Eve, a day or so ahead of time.

Arcie heard a door slam and talking and laughter in the front of the house. She went in and saw the Missus and her kids shaking snow off their coats.

“Ummm-mm! It’s swell for Christmas Eve,” one of the kids said to Arcie. “It’s snowin’ like the deuce, and mother came near driving through a stop light. Can’t hardly see for the snow. It’s swell!”

“Supper’s ready,” Arcie said. She was thinking how her shoes weren’t very good for walking in snow.

It seemed like the white folks took us long as they could to eat that evening. While Arcie was washing dishes, the Missus came out with her money.

“Arcie,” the Missus said, “I’m so sorry, but would you mind if I just gave you five dollars tonight? The children have made me run short of change, buying presents and all.”

I’d like to have seven,” Arcie said. “I needs it.”

“Well, I just haven’t got seven,” the Missus said. “I didn’t know you’d want all your money before the end of the week, anyhow. I just haven’t got it to spare.”

Arcie took five. Coming out of the hot kitchen, she wrapped up as well as she could and hurried by the house where she roomed to get little Joe. At least he could look at the Christmas trees in the windows downtown.

The landlady, a big light yellow woman, was in a bad humor. She said to Arcie, “I thought you was comin’ home early and get this child. I guess you know I want to go out, too, once in awhile.”

Arcie didn’t say anything for, if she had, she knew the landlady would probably throw it up to her that she wasn’t getting paid to look after a child both night and day.

“Come on, Joe,” Arcie said to her son, “let’s us go in the street.”

“I hears they got a Santa Claus down town,” Joe said, wriggling into his worn little coat. “I wants to see him.”

“Don’t know ’bout that,” his mother said, “but hurry up and get your rubbers on. Stores’ll all be closed directly.”

It was six or eight blocks downtown. They trudged along through the falling snow, both of them a little cold but the snow was pretty! The main street was hung with bright red and blue lights. In front of the City Hall there was a Christmas tree-but it didn’t have no presents on it, only lights. In the store windows there were lots of toys-for sale.

Joe kept on saying, “Mama, I want …”

But mama kept walking ahead. It was nearly ten, when the stores were due to close, and Arcie wanted to get Joe some cheap gloves and something to keep him warm, as well as a toy or two. She thought she might come across a rummage sale where they had children’s clothes. And in the ten-cent store, she could some toys.

“O-oo! Lookee….,” little Joe kept saying and pointing at things in the windows. How warm and pretty the lights were, and the shops, and the electric signs through the snow.

It took Arcie more than a dollar to get Joe’s mittens and things he needed. In the A. & P. Arcie bought a big box of hard candies for 49¢. And then she guided Joe through the crowd on the street until they came to the dime store. Near the ten-cent store they passed a moving picture theater. Joe said he wanted to go in and see the movies.”

Arcie said, “Ump-un! No, child! This ain’t Baltimore where they have shows for colored, too. In these here small towns, they don’t let colored folks in. We can’t go in there.” “Oh,” said little Joe.

In the ten-cent store, there was an awful crowd. Arcie told Joe to stand outside and wait for her. Keeping hold of him in the crowded store would be a job. Besides she didn’t want him to see what toys she was buying. They were to be a surprise from Santa Claus tomorrow.

Little Joe stood outside the ten-cent store in the light, and the snow, and people passing. Gee, Christmas was pretty. All tinsel and stars and cotton. And Santa Claus a-coming from somewhere, dropping things in stockings. And all the people in the streets were carrying things, and the kids looked happy.

But Joe soon got tired of just standing and thinking and waiting in front of the ten-cent store. There were so many things to look at in the other windows. He moved along up the block a little, and then a little more, walking and looking. In fact, he moved until he came to the white folks’ picture show.

In the lobby of the moving picture show, behind the late glass doors, it was all warm and glowing and awful pretty. Joe stood looking in, and as he looked his eyes began to make out, in there blazing beneath holly and colored streamers and the electric stars of the lobby, a marvelous Christmas tree. A group of children and grownups, white, of course, were standing around a big jovial man in red beside the tree. Or was it a man? Little Joe’s eyes opened wide. No, it was not a man at all. It was Santa Claus!

Little Joe pushed open one of the glass doors and ran into the lobby of the white moving picture show. Little Joe went right through the crowd and up to where he could get a good look at Santa Claus. And Santa Claus was giving away gifts, little presents for children, little boxes of animal crackers and stick-candy canes. And behind him on the tree was a big sign (which little Joe didn’t know how to read). It said, to those who understand, MERRY XMAS FROM SANTA CLAUS TO OUR YOUNG PATRONS.


And there was Santa Claus in a red suit and a white beard all sprinkled with tinsel snow. Around him were rattlers and drums and rocking horses that he was not giving away. But the signs on them said (could little Joe have read) that they would be presented from the stage on Christmas Day to the holders of the lucky numbers. Tonight, Santa Claus was only giving away candy, and stick-candy canes, and animal crackers to the kids.

Joe would have liked terribly to have a stick-candy cane. He came a little closer to Santa Claus, until he was right in the front of the crowd, And then Santa Claus saw Joe.

Why is it that lots of white people always grin when they see a Negro child? Santa Claus grinned. Everybody else grinned too; looking at little black Joe-who had no business in the lobby of a white theater. Then Santa Claus stooped down and slyly picked up one of his lucky number rattlers, a great big loud tin-pan rattle such as they use in cabarets. And he shook it fiercely right at Joe. That was funny. The white people laughed, kids and all. But little Joe didn’t laugh. He was scared. To the shaking of the big rattle, he turned and fled out of the warm lobby of the theater, out into the street where the snow was and the people. Frightened by laughter, he had begun to cry. He went looking for his mama. In his head he never thought Santa Claus shook great rattles at children like that – and then laughed.

In the crowd on the street he went the wrong way. He couldn’t find the ten-cent store or his mother. There were too many people, all white people, moving like white shadows in the snow, a world of white people.

It seemed to Joe an awfully long time till he suddenly saw Arcie, dark and worried-looking, cut across the side-walk through all the passing crowd and grab him. Although her arms were full of packages, she still managed with one free hand to shake him until his teeth rattled.

“Why didn’t you stand where I left you?” Arcie demanded loudly. “Tired as I am, I got to run all over the streets in the night lookin’ for you. I’m a great mind to wear you out.”

When little Joe got his breath back, on the way home, he told his mama he had been in the moving picture show.

“But Santa Claus didn’t give me nothin’,” Joe said tearfully. “He made a big noise at me and I runned out.”

“Serves you right,” said Arcie, trudging through the snow. “You had no business in there. I told you to stay where I left you.”

“But I seed Santa Claus in there,” little Joe said, “so I went in.”

“Huh! That wasn’t no Santa Claus,” Arcie explained. “If it was, he wouldn’t a-treated you like that. That’s a theater for white folks – I told you once – and he’s just an old white man.”

“Oh .  . .” said little Joe.

-Langston Hughes, December, 1933

Rediscovered at Busboys and Poets Restaurant
Tacoma Park, Washington DC, December 2019

December Marks Thanksgetting

A quick reminder to our reader: December begins the holy weeks of Thanksgetting when people turn from being thankful for the past to being avaricious and covetous of the future. Thank to all who have resisted this unhealthy tradition. Maybe to the confused and manipulated Christmas/Winter Solstice will be about more than fairy tales and money.