Friday, November 26, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
There was tax on money earned, tax on money unearned. Tax on money spent, tax on money saved. Value Added Tax on everything you bought, and sales tax on everything you sold--and extra tax on booze and tobacco. Tax on owning a house. Tax on owning a car. Death tax, inheritance tax, tax on this, tax on that. It went on and on.
One day, the ministers sat around discussing what they could tax next.
"There is nothing left to tax," said one minister.
"But government needs more money," said another minister.
"There must be something taxable that still is not taxed," said a third minister.
"I know," said yet another minister. (There was no shortage of ministers--they were paid from tax money.) "We could institute a flatulence tax."
The room went silent.
"A tax on passing wind?" said Minister One. "That’s ingenious. But how can it be enforced?"
"Easy," said Minister Two. "It is a fact that everyone passes wind." The other Ministers nodded in agreement. "So nobody can dispute that tax is owed. Furthermore, those who pass wind a lot should pay more tax than those who do not."
"It is very justifiable," reasoned Minister Three. "Those who pass wind a lot are polluting the air we breathe. So they should certainly pay more tax."
"Precisely," said Minister Four, whose brainchild this was.
"But how can one determine who passes wind a little and who passes wind a lot?" posed Minister Two.
Minister Four smiled a knowing smile as he dipped into his briefcase. "The Flatulator."
"The what?" said Minister One.
"My own invention," said Minister Four.
"How does it work?" asked Minister Two.
Said Minister Four: "Our science lab has dissected all the various gases of flatulence and determined that one percent of all flatus contains five gases that smell: ammonia, hydrogen sulfide, indole, skatole and short-chain fatty acids. The Flatulator identifies one or more of these gases in the immediate vicinity." Minister Four flicked a switch and turned on The Flatulator. It immediately sounded an alarm and flashed red. "Hmmm, which one of you guys farted?"
Minister Two blushed.
"Ingenious," said Minister One. "But we can't follow everyone around with Flatulators."
"Of course not," said Minister Four. "We don't follow tax-payers around for income tax either. We have the honor system, with random checks and audits to keep our populace reasonably honest." He tapped his instrument. "With our Flatulator, we can conduct random checks and audits."
"How would that actually work?" asked Minister Two.
"Let us say that Miss Jones pays a declared tax on three farts per day," said Minister Four. "One day, whilst out in public, she is secretly followed by a tax inspector equipped with The Flatulator. If it transpires that Miss Jones farts more than thrice--and this takes no account of her private farting--she is in violation. Miss Jones is confronted on the spot and issued a citation for back tax, excuse the pun, and a penalty. The beauty here is that tax-payers will be more concerned with public confrontation than the financial penalty, so they'll pay up from the get-go."
"What if Miss Jones had the bad luck to eat cheese and onion pie on the day she was scoped with this Flatulator?" asked Minister Two.
"As you say," sighed Minister Four. "Bad luck."
"Perhaps we need a legal opinion," said Minister One. "What if your Miss Jones decides to sue the tax authorities for invasion of privacy?"
"Nothing is private so far as taxation is concerned," huffed Minister Four. "If Miss Jones has been dishonest about her tax obligations, she should count her blessings that she is not criminally prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law and thrown in prison."
"I like it," said Minister Two. "Not least because it is environmentally correct."
"How so?" said Minister Three.
"People will pass wind less often, if only because the Flatus Police might be on their tail, no pun intended."
"You realize," said Minister One, a gleam in his eye. "This may give wind to a whole new tax."
"I see where you're headed with this," said Minister Two.
"A pooping tax?" said Minister Three.
"We are doing rather well, today, aren't we?" said Minister One.
An orderly knocked the open door and stepped inside. "Meds," he said.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
The first PAPA DUKE ever heard of Padre Pio was when an Italian janitor in his apartment building asked him to paint a portrait of the monk from San Giovanni Rotondo.
The janitor was very ill and about to enter hospital for life-or-death surgery. He wanted to pray to an icon of Padre Pio, who was later (in 2002) canonized a saint.
Papa Duke asked the janitor for photographs, and obliged him with a painting. The janitor prayed to it and miraculously recovered.
Papa Duke could not shake the image of Padre Pio from his mind. Like a man possessed, he continued to paint dozens of portraits of Padre Pio. He gave them to friends with terminal illnesses and watched in amazement as they recovered.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
PAPA DUKE illustrated this story, written by his middle son, in 1989.
Early one morning, when I finished doing my business, the toilet talked back at me.
"Little girl," said the toilet. "You've pooped one poop too many. You'd better not flush--or they're coming back to get you."
"Don't be rude, toilet," I said. "Talking about poopies is gross. And, anyway, toilets can't talk." I flushed a good strong flush.
"You'll see..." the toilet hummed, as water swished round and round.
"What cheek," I said.
Then I walked into the living room--and came face to face with every poop I ever pooped! Big poops. Small poops. Skinny poops. Fat poops. All kinds of poops. Having a poop party.
"Eeewwwww," I screamed. "Dis-gusting!" I ran out of the living room into my bedroom. That's where I found more poops, soiling my dolls.
"Stop it!" I screamed at the poops. "Leave my Barbie dolls alone!"
But the poops did not listen. A mean gang called the Poop Punks turned on me and yelled, "We're Number Two--and we're gonna get you!"
I ran back to the toilet. "Toilet, talk to me," I said. "Tell me what to do. The poops have come back!"
"I'm fed up," said the toilet. "The only time you pay attention to me is when you want to lay poops. I faithfully flush these unmentionables--too gross to talk about, you said so yourself. And when I warn you that you've pooped one poop too many, you call me rude and say I can't talk. And now you want me to talk."
"Please, Mister Toilet," I begged. "How can I stop the poops?"
"And now you even call me mister," said the toilet. "Finally, a little respect. I'm sorry for the poops coming back, little girl, but there's nothing I can doo-doo."
"That's not funny, toilet," I said.
The poops from the living room joined rank with the poops from my bedroom, and this pack of poop reeked big-time.
"Toilet!" I cried, holding my nose. "Do something!"
"I'm sorry, little girl," said the toilet. "You've pooped one poop too many."
The poops flocked before me, leaving skid marks on the carpet.
Colonel Crappeur, the biggest, fattest poop of all, looked up at me, straight in the eye. "Everyone is always pooping, pooping, pooping," he growled. "Every day of the week, every week of the month, every month of the year. And now there's no place left for us poops to go. And on top of that, we've been given a bum rap. What do you think of that?"
"I've never thought about it," I said.
"She's never thought about it," mimicked Pritchard and Prunella Poop in unison.
All the poops laughed.
"Well, think about it now, sister," yelled a poop named Diddly Dung. "Cos we've come back!"
"But you can't stay here!" I stamped my foot, and nearly stepped in poop.
"You made us," said Colonel Crappeur. "So you've got us. As a founding-member of the John Crapper Society, I'm sick and tired of mixing with other poops."
"Where else can we go?" squeaked Nerdy Turd from the back.
"I'll flush you back down the toilet," I offered.
"Oh, no," the toilet snapped his lid shut. "I've already flushed them poops once. It ain't my job to flush the same poopies twice. I warned you about pooping one poop too many, little girl, so now you're stuck with them."
I turned to the plunger and the toilet brush.
"Plunger?" I said. "Brush? Can you help me?"
The plunger puckered. "We've had it with that darn toilet."
"Yeah," squealed the brush. "We have the filthiest job of all, and that toilet gives us zero credit for keeping them poops in Poopland. We're on strike!"
"Harummmph," said the toilet. "Where were you two last time I got stuffed up? You're nothing but a pair of no-good slouches!"
"See what I mean?" said the brush.
"Totally insensitive," said the plunger.
Meantime, the poops surrounded me with menace.
"We have rights, too, ya know!" yelled a poop from the Ca-Ca Clique. "We're card-carrying members of the NRA."
"The what?" I said.
"Nappie Rash Association," he said with pride.
Two other gangs--the Turd Tribe and the Stoolies--launched an offensive on me, led by Colonel Crappeur and his Crapper Clan.
A moment later, mommy woke me and said to get ready for school. I would have told her my dream, but I did not fancy a bar of soap for breakfast.
Moral: Be careful what you flush away. It may come back to haunt you.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
FROM MONACO COOL:
Everyone in the principality comes equipped with a story, and Tony's is as good as any. A black man, from North Caroline, Tony hasn't been "home" since 1964 when he enlisted in the U.S. Army and got shipped to Germany. Set free after a two-year stint, he roamed Europe, savored its fruit, picked up three languages doing nightclub work in Germany, Holland, and France, before settling in Rocquebrune, a stone's throw from Monaco. He hasn't seen his mother or seven brothers and sisters in twenty-five years, won't ever see his daddy again ten years gone. Tony almost went back twice, once after a sister was murdered ("It's a good thing--I would-a killed a man"); another time, bags packed, ticket in hand at an airport, Tony couldn't board the plane. A little voice kept nagging him, "You can't go home, Tony, you just can't go home."