Ole Orange Hair

Me and Donald Trump aren't even kissin' cousins, and I would be stunned if Ole Orange Hair would even remember me. I am certain that he saves his memory for people he can still use or sue, or preferentially, in thinking about himself.

Some years ago a friend at G.E. Pension Fund decided that it would be a good idea that The Genius and I should meet. So I put my fat lower case jewish ass on a airplane and flew to New York for lunch with the self proclaimed genius. Flying to N.Y. for lunch was something I did with some regularity which highlights what was a major stupidity problem of mine. So we met in the Oak Room at the Plaza Hotel for lunch. His Royal Highness, my G.E. friend, and me, The Ultimate Jet Setting Lower Case jewish Dummy.

In those days, Trump "controlled" the Plaza and there was a regular parade to our luncheon table of his acolytes genuflecting for Trump who was in hog heaven. Trying to have a conversation in between Trump's pontifications to his worshipers was impossible. By the time lunch ended, I was the ultimate in frustration having been treated rudely and with zero respect after what I considered to be a major league effort to get to The Big Apple (I was no longer drinking and getting blasted on airplanes). After lunch, I got back to my hotel and called Trump's office. I told his assistant that I wanted to see Trump immediately. His assistant told me that his calendar was too full for me which almost pushed me out the 10th story window. I pointed out that I had taken a serious trip to see him and that he absolutely owed me the courtesy of 20 minutes of his time. She phoned me back and told me to get my ass over to his office and he would see me.

The "conversation" could have been on Saturday Night Live. What an arrogant, self consumed guy he was/is? He told me that once a person spoke the first five words of a sentence he, Trump, knew what the other person had to say and that he, Trump, didn't have to listen any further. After a few more minutes of this bizarre "conversation", I told Trump that "if they knew about ADD when he was in the third grade that he would still be in the third grade and that his mind had the staying power of a moth on a hot light bulb". But history does says that Trump is a bright guy if a boor as well. I never had the desire to ever see him again though I did spot him again in a NYC restaurant a few years ago. He was standing under a bright light fixture which made his hair shine ORANGE.

P.S. Without GE Pension Fund and the education and financing they provided, Trump would have been another very smart failed RE operator who earlier had needed his Daddy to bail him out. Brains and all... But those are two other Trump stories left for another day.

Dead Dick

It ain't easy staying motivated when your 85 and even masturbating doesn't work any more (my dick really did die before the rest of me). Not even looking at great looking women with "strong" fit bodies or even thinking about Bill Clinton style sex (which I endorse and loved) doesn't do anything for me anymore. Reminds me of that bad old gag "How do you stop a woman from giving head? Marry her!"

But I do stay motivated to stay alive and functioning through a fitness regime, devouring newspapers and books, trying to do deals, and remembering with laughs and fondness the experiences of my rich and unusual life (the Ice Princess would and did call me and my life's attitude "bizarre"). If you take care of your body your mind will follow. My four year stint working as a farmer, a Bronx lower case jew, slopping hogs was an absolute non starter. A real fucking, living, breathing nightmare that time has turned into a four year sequence of improbable but very funny stories. Like buying a bull with a "broken tool", selling hogs in Chicago and Austin, Mn. Thinking, in error, I could get fucked less in Chicago than at the Swift packing plant in Mason City, buying diseased Missouri feeder pigs, buying wet corn and even wetter, moldy hay. It was in Iowa where I really became acquainted with "If you can't fuck your friends, who can you fuck? Your enemies won't let you."

But at the end of the day, all of those experiences have helped to keep me laughing and always optimistic. I used to think that "It can't get any worse" but it did. And then the super pessimist, the Ice Princess would literally scream at me "You're such a Pollyana. Why should things get any better?" I would respond with, "Because I am going to make them better." And I did!!! So even today, at 85, I just recently got a testosterone shot to increase my energy level and perhaps even bring my dick back from the dead. I am still trying to live as though I'm 40. If that "thing" ever snaps to attention again with or without Viagra or testosterone you will will see pigs fly .