The Entrepreneur

It was a dark and stony night at the Scarlet Eh Toke and Snack. The rain came down so hard it obliterated the stars, giving rain a bad name. Inside, the Eh was smoky. The table-tenants occupied their spots, having laid down a sawbuck for the night’s rent of a table.

Sitting over by God-knows-where, Call-Me-Ishmael held a joint between his fingers. It was the best of weed. It was the worst of weed. It was the best of weed because there was a lot of it. When there was a lot of it, Ishy could get buzzed sooner than later. It was the worst of weed because there was a lot of it. When there was a lot of it, Ishy would never get un-stoned. Not that he thought there was much to say for the un-stoned life.

Ishy looked at the joint between his fingers and said, “I dub thee Moby Dick.” Then he lit up and took a puff. “Man, that’s good.” It was good enough to give Acapulco Gold a run for its money.

H. P., the legendary Hester Prynne and proprietress of the Eh, moseyed her svelte figure over to Ishy’s table in the corner. “You wanna share, Big Boy?” she asked, a bit of demand in her Mae West voice.

“With you?” he said. “’Course I wanna share. Take yourself a little sitsky.”

H. P. never refused an offer she couldn’t refuse. It just wasn’t polite. She dropped into the chair across from Ishy.

He passed the doobie over to her. She took a long puff. It went down easy. Real easy. She released the smoke, making several rings Gandalf would have been proud of.

“That’s some buzz,” she said.

“Ought to be. I grew it myself.”

“You don’t say.”

“I do say.” And he did.

“It’s a bomb,” she said, smiled and passed the big fellow back to him. “Very cannabistic. A real blitzkrieg.”

“You do know that it’s a long way to Temporary?”

“Hadn’t thought of it that way. It did look like you’d been babysitting them smoke rings long enough for them to grow feet and make for the border.”

“Not a bad thought if you ask me.” he took another puff. “I was just taking a bake break.”

“I can see you’ve reached your destination.”

“That’s cause my brain has been ashed.”

“In other words, you are blazed.”

“There’s no other words about it. I done went and got myself blitzed.” Ishy would have suggested a walk to walk off the stony. But there was no possibility of taking a trek out into that night. So, here he and H. P. were, communing with Alice B. Toklas. It was enough to make a Rastafarian weep.

“Ishy.” H P had a moment of absolute brilliance. It was as if the Archangel Gabriel came down and tooted in her ear. “Why don’t you go on ‘Shark Tank’. Raise some money to entrepreneur yourself into a nice little business.”

Ishy took another hit of fatty and passed it back over to H P. “I don’t like sharks. Besides I can’t swim.”

She toked on Moby Dick. The smoke going down and lifting her higher. “No, man. Get some folks to invest in your weed. Once they toke on one of your joints, they’ll be in. Big time. Then you can retire and do the Maynard G. Krebs you’ve always wanted. It’s a future.”

“You mean–”

“I do mean.”

“I won’t ever have to–” he hesitated to say the hated word, but finally it came out like water bursting through a leak in a dam, “work.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“I think I hear the angels rejoicing. Have I died and gone to the big pot store in the sky?”

“Could happen.”

Ishy took himself a little looksee through the window of the Scarlet Eh. The rain had stopped. The dark had parted like the Red Sea back in Moses’ time. There was at least twenty-two stars shining down on Call-me-Ishmael that night. He wasn’t sure whether he was seeing clear or it was the weed hallucinatin’ his brain. It really didn’t matter.

All he knew was that the day began with the sun rising and nothing to show for it. Now here he was at the end of the day with a Plan. That Plan was going to help him reach his ultimate goal of sitting on his butt and roller coasting through this life and the next one. Hallelujah.

A new household product

Here at Uncle Bardie Labs we are thinking of the American consumer and their needs. We’ve scratched our heads and butted those heads against the wall day after day for years. We wanted to come up with a new product that would benefit Mr. and Mrs. America and the little Kiddie Americas. We searched and searched our warehouses. We searched and searched our offices. We searched and searched our filing cabinets. Finally, and I do mean finally, behind those just named cabinets, we found the plans for the perfect consumer product. One that revolutionizes the American home in the one place in need of a revolution.

We dusted off those plans. Believe me there was a lot of dust to shake off. It took us days. We cleaned them up and started to work. Now Uncle Bardie Labs is proud to announce its latest appliance in a long line of great appliances. This appliance lives up to our motto: “We’re not Schears. We not Wallymart. We’re Uncle Bardie’s.”

I’m sure you will agree when you see our brand spanking new sanitation feature. It’s the U B L 1, better known as Uncle Bardie Labs Flusher. This toilet will do everything you expect from a toilet and more.

1.For the first time in human history, this toilet recognizes if you are male or female. The ladies are just going to love this. The toilet seat automatically closes for your time on the throne. For the gentlemen, it raises when said gentlemen stand before the commode, ready for a number one deposit. As you can see, this would cut the divorce rates in half.

2.The Flusher has its own gps. When our customers wake up in the middle of the night, they don’t have to wonder where the bathroom went. Push a button and there will be a soft beep coming from the Flusher to provide a truly open trail to relief.

3.You’ve heard the saying, “Your poop stinks in that old peculiar way.” True relief has come. No longer will your poop stink. The Flusher has a spray which kills the stinko bacteria that stinks up everybody’s poop. Now you will be able to say with a straight face, “My poop don’t stink.”

4.The proud owner of a Flusher never has to worry about pushing that handle again. The Flusher does its own flushing. All the owner has to do is their thing. All the rest is done by this amazing product.

5.When the Flusher flushes, music will rise from it. The owner will have their choice of the music they want. EDM for the dancer. Rap for the “with it”. Rock for the hippie. Country for the down-homer. Classical for the elitist. Blues for the dateless and desperate. Jazz for the cool cat.

6.Another great unique feature is Wizzer. Wizzer? you ask. Wizzer is the Siri for the Flusher. You can easily program it for one of a variety of unique voices: the British butler, the French maid, the Russian Cossack, the Italian romeo and the good old American y’all. While sitting, you can ask Wizzer for the daily news, for the local sales or just some chit-chat. And you will be glad when your teenager comes to you and says, “Wizzer just called me potty mouth. Make her quit.” Your response, of course, will be, “Don’t you know that Wizzer is a lady.”

7.On top of all these great benefits, here’s the topper. The Flusher is self-cleaning. It’s unique system using air pressure to do the work for the customer.

So be the first in your neighborhood to get a Flusher. It’s only $39.95 for 5000 payments. If you order within the next fifteen minutes you get an extra value product absolutely free. A roll of Uncle Bardie’s Toilet Tissue. With it, a little dab’ll do you. Just think you don’t have to use a whole roll. That’s good for the environment. And its soft gentleness is good for the asterisk. Unlike other tissue products that should be renamed sandpaper.

We think you will agree with us here at Uncle Bardie Labs that you will want to go for the gusto. You will want to invite all your neighbors in to show off this latest in bathroom facilities.

This is such a revolutionary product Steven Spielberg is making the first commercial for the Flusher. John Williams is composing a special tune. It is called “Poop Poop Fizz Fizz. Oh, what a relief it is.” That’s how special it is.

You are not going to find the Flusher in any store. It’s a one-time only offer. Just call 1-800-Unc-leby. If you aren’t completely satisfied within thirty seconds of receiving the latest in twenty-first century technology, you can return it for a complete refund. But we think that’s not going to happen. Especially after you get a visit from one of our Men in Black.


I know those fashion designers are crazy. But spandex shoes? I got to tell you I ain’t wearing spandex shoes on my feet. No matter what my wife says.

First off, you have to understand, spandex makes me itch. It’s worse than poison ivy. And I know how poison ivy itches. I sat down on some once. It was worse than that one time I had cactus needles in my butt.

On top of that, I had to sleep on my tummy. In all my life, I have never been able to sleep on my tummy. It always gives me the tummy ache. And diarrhea. Not only did I have an itchy butt, it was runny too. That’s called killing two birds with one stone and that’s the results of having poison ivy in my sitting place.

With all that Spandex foot itching, how am I going to walk? Last time my feet itched that bad, they had to cut off my right big toe. So now I’m going to be walking around with no right big toe and my feet itching up the wazoo. A cop stops me and gives me one of them straight-line-walking sobriety tests, I will never walk a straight line. On top of that, I’ve got one hell of a lisp. That cop’ll arrest me for sure, thinking I am driving drunk.

What’s a fella to do? My wife usually isn’t unreasonable and I do love her so. Guess when she says I wear spandex shoes, I wear spandex shoes. Even if it costs me my other big toe. After all, I had to give her daddy my right eye. You know, the good one. ‘Fore he decided I could marry his pride and joy.

Well, one thing’s for sure. No matter what that Ralph Lauren says, I am not wearing pink spandex shoes. It would be as embarrassing as that kid in the bunny suit in “The Christmas Story”.

Death, a poem

we treat death as a thief
and we name it so
death is not a thief

death is a gift
a field of flowers
where we shall dance
on feet in wonder

death is a magician
transforming us
into our better selves


In honor of National Poetry Month

Black marks on a page,
Outline of her face,
Dark eyes and a smile,
Hair cut to style,
A slender neck,
A dress ankle length,
Her hands upon her lap
Holding a school boy’s cap,
And a rosary too,
Its beads tapping her shoe.
With one last streak,
The portrait’s complete
Of her younger then
In the remember whens.