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I’m 63 and I’ve discovered I have a zit. Imagine, at my age. This is a throwback to my high school days. Perhaps I’m was trying to relive my youth through the raising up of enough grease inside my skin to achieve one last zit.
 
So Says SammonIt’s a whopper of fair size too. You’d think I wasn’t capable of it. You see, when you’re young, you’re pretty greasy, sort of like a new car all lubricated and ready to go out and race through life in a body that just like that in a car has never been left out in the outside air to start drying out. If you’re a pimply kid, your skin is almost dripping with ooze in addition to tons of sperm from your reproductive organ.
 
Talk about sperm.
 
You could look at somebody practically if you’re a 14-year-old boy and make them pregnant. I ran out of sperm a long time ago but that doesn’t stop me from trying to raise it. Oh, we’re talking about sperm here and I’m getting off the subject of having a zit.
 
Come to think of it, generating sperm and expending it and popping a luscious zit are almost the same kind of experience. They both feel so good. Pressure is applied in both cases and there is a sudden release of power, followed by a rush of disgusting bodily fluid. In fact, sperm and puss from a zit look pretty much the same although pus is a bit more yellowish in color.

Ben Bigfoot (left) is the world's smallest bigfoot, shown here in forced perspective at his repeated insistence.Reader’s note: I wrote this script for a professional comic ventriloquist. Imagine John is the ventriloquist and Ben is the puppet in his lap—in front of a live audience.

John – Hello everybody. I think you’ll agree with me this is a unique experience. An interview with, direct from the lost vastness of the wilderness, Ben, the world’s smallest Bigfoot.

Ben – Thank you.

John – Is it true?

Ben – What?

John – You’re the world’s smallest Bigfoot?

Ben – Do I look like I’m going to play NFL football next year?

John – How did you become the world’s smallest Bigfoot?

Ben – Too much smoking and no sex.

John – Really?

Ben – Isn’t that how you got that bald spot?

Prescription drug aficionado Rush Limbaugh.Since it’s okay for Rush Limbaugh to resort to name-calling and over the air identify a young woman who testified before Congress in favor of contraceptive coverage as a “slut,” it’s okay for me to use this space to call Limbaugh a “pig.”

No wait! I’m not gonna do that, sink to his level. I will use the more dignified word “porker.”

The porker has made a career out of sitting before a microphone and issuing invective, venom and charges of disloyalty, dishonesty, slander, name calling, all in the name of bogus patriotism----in other words-----an angry conservative oink!

Let’s get something straight right now. I’m not against the porker’s right to broadcast, because he’s essentially an entertainer who insults much like Don Rickles used to before he mellowed. There maybe is even a kernel of truth once in awhile in some of what Limbaugh says. What’s perhaps unfortunate is that so many people take him seriously, because, other than moving his lips and puffing forth inanities and insanities and un-sanitized vulgarities, what has he done—other than add gross layers of fat to his always swollen protuberances?

The contents of a newly revealed diary show that George Romney, former governor of Michigan, was so obsessed with the game of baseball that he named his son after a baseball mitt.

"I know I am perhaps dooming my son to a life of failure and frustration naming him Mitt, but I’m hoping that he will be inspired and become a relief pitcher for the Detroit Tigers," the elder Romney said in the diary, dated 1958.

Romney, who passed away in 1995, was governor of Michigan from 1963 to 1969, and is the father of current Republican presidential candidate, Mitt Romney.

In the diary, Romney confessed to neglecting his wife and family by attending baseball games, and that he had asked his wife for an "open marriage," in which she would understand his long absences at Tiger Stadium.

Order Sammon's "How to Enjoy Corporate Emasculation," only $79.95 while supplies last.There's something about me that really angers people. A nice guy like me.

Maybe it's because I'm so open, vulnerable, intelligent, handsome. I don't know.

It's uncanny how I have this innocent ability to infuriate. If I could just channel it, find a way to make money off it. For example, I've taken my share of low blow cruel shots at work. I've worked for some vicious, sadistic, dishonest, scheming people.

I had a manager one time slam his fist on my desk in front of other employees over some trivial matter. Now, if I walk into his office and hit him, I'm up on charges of assault in battery. I have to spend at least a night in jail (I've already been there once), pay a fine, money I don't have, or do public service picking up leaves alongside the highway in orange pajamas.

He slams his fist on your desk because he’s afraid of his boss over him, and wants to use you as a scapegoat. You know you have to pay a bill and can’t quit your job. So you take it. You need the pay, so you take it from him. The system favors the abuser.

But you don’t have to take it lying down.

It seems that life is a conspiracy designed to humiliate. Always petty humiliation. Like the late Rodney Dangerfield used to say, "I don’t get no respect."

Back in the Old West, you could just shoot it out with the bastard. But no more.

Nowadays, you have to take his insult if you want to keep your bill paying job, until it gnaws at your guts. There's a better way to deal with these people.