Running My Mouth Without a Shirt in America
This is a Great Introduction
Besides (still) resenting Norris Pharr, a good looking History teacher in my eighth-grade year, 1968, I cannot find one solid reason for defecting to North Korea. This might amaze you—and some, this might find this piece confusing, but I kinda like living here in America, Home of The Brave and our own soldiers on the front line in Iraq stood up proudly and said . . .”these colors don’t run!” Amen, brothers and sisters in arms.
And parting ways with North Korea, who in half-a mind who already lives here in the USA with a roof over their head, food to eat, and no aggressively-stupid Police Agents who love to roust innocent people? And who in the wide, wide world really likes Pak Pong-ju, Prime Minister of North Korea? This thug in a drab suit looks much like Porky Pig on steroids. But you have a free will. Go ahead and try living in a house the size of Pak Pong-ju’s massive butt and mindless North Korean soldiers watching your every move—singing the “Oh-Ee-Oh,” on “The Wizard of Oz.”
I Need You to
Wait just a cotton pickin’minute. Speaking of cotton, and since I have done my fair share of picking cotton at age six, lived here in the Land of Opportunity, paid taxes, and would salute Old Glory if some liberal with a pea shooter wouldn’t sue me, have what older Americans still refer to as Freedom of Speech. Listen! Did you hear it? I stuck my head out of my living room door and yelled, “Go, America,” with lungs so sound they could be entered in the Decathlon which, since you wondered, was held Oct. 18-19, in Mexico City with American Bill Toomey winning the gold medal with an Olympic record score of 8193 points. Tough to beat a man named Toomey. Tough, indeed.
America is now being run by real estate mogul, Donald Trump, “D,” to friends. I like The Donald. I also liked Bill Toomey as he won the Decathlon in The Summer Olympics in 1968 in Mexico City--besting a lot of athletic guys from Mexico, Africa, and New Zealand. But sadly, Bill Toomey, who had been a track and field coach at the University of California at Irvine in the early 1970s--is now considered a Dinosaur. The poor kid even had a chest bursting with hair. I know. I had sneaked out of bed on (that) school night when ABC-Television, broadcast the Decathlon with host, Jim McKay, who aired a “still” an “Olympic Moment,”showing a shirtless Toomey smiling huge about something in his backyard. If you want some “Bill Toomey Trivia”: Toomey smiled a lot in his hey day. I don’t know where he is today. I think that endless smiling took a toll on him.
What’s with all of this shirtless business? You can figure it out. You can also see the forest from the trees. Maybe there is a conspiracy afoot right here. Right now. Only Bill Toomey could pull off the shirtless look and smile like a wild jackass while wolfing down a wagon load of Bitter-weed and not be locked up. This is the truth if I’ve ever told it—and in my 64 years, I cannot count (on my fingers and toes) how many times that I have told the truth.
Have you ever witnessed a newscast with President Trump appearing at a social event and him going without a shirt? Did Obama ever go without a shirt on the Campaign Trail? Huh? No? Well then. You have something to think about while you are busy unraveling this newly-discovered cover-up as to why only a handful of our most-powerful men never go shirtless. It’s a problem, alright. I’ve said it over the years—just leave it to Nixon. He will run ahead of everyone to just mess us up. Was I right? Was he wearing a shirt when he was busy recording hit-after-hit in the Oval Office? And was he wearing a heavy-starched white shirt when those 18-minutes of tape was erased? YES! Tricky Dicky never went anywhere unless he looked absolutely dapper from top to bottom. But you know Dick. He obviously had a kinky side. Think about it. If you were the President and head of the Free World, wouldn’t you just once, do something completely against the Law of The Land and Mother Nature? Sure. Breaking molds is just one reason that makes us human.
For fun, why don’t you research the background(s) of President(s), Ronald Regan; Jimmy Carter; The Dynamic Duo: George H. and “W,” the Bush Father and Son Tag Team and the Kennedy brothers. If this were a high school quiz that asked: Of these former US. Presidents, which one would lean toward going shirtless at a backyard barbecue or going out for a good yacht ride while the Secret Service looked on? If I were a thinking student anxious about heading up to my Senior Year, the Kennedy’s would get my mark in the box beside their names. Both John and Bobby loved horse-play at their dad, Joseph and Rose Kennedy’s Compound consisting of three houses on six acres (24,000 miles) of waterfront property on Cape Cod along Nantucket Sound in Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, United States. and these two rowdy Kennedy guys DID, I’m sure of it, would relax with Joe and the rest of the Kennedy Clan without a shirt during a rousing game of Two-Hand Tag Football. Talk about your Americana! Those Kennedy’s had the Market corned and had it all sewn up.
Personally, and having read and studied all I could about Joe Kennedy, the Patriarch of the Kennedy Family, I would have hated this old geezer—for two reasons: He smiled too much just like Bill Toomey, but without ever being photographed shirtless and he was such a schemer that many around him confused him for a common reptile. Ever see his photo up-close? He would creep Charles Manson to tears—that weird gaze in his eyes and those teeth glaring like the grill of a ‘55 Chevy. No thanks, Joe. I’ll sit in the balcony, thank you.
But to give President John Kennedy his due, he looked suave, sharp, and very stable when he went without a shirt. Maybe the photo that I seen of him was a trick photo. It just seemed like he was shirtless. Trick Photography was in its infancy during his first term as President. I can’t go forward without leaving a comment about Kennedy and Marilyn’s (alleged) affair in the White House. I don’t care what Peter Lawford said. I wasn’t there. And as for Norma Jean . . .she would have looked like a bombshell without a shirt, but she “would” be wearing a bra. Norma is no common slut, you know!
For a long time now, all I have managed to complete is five cups of coffee, black, no sugar or prepare to be deported to Cuba—which may be, the New Florida Extended if Big Business (Microsoft; AT&T and DuPont Chemical) have anything to say about it. When sharp business minds blend with a soft discussion about How Can We Make Cuba Prosperous Again? Big Business is cocked and ready for action—to set Trade Embargo’s, Tax Regulations and even “throw some hard-working Cuban people a bone” by opening up a brand-new CostCo Warehouse in Downtown Havana employing 67 people.
All that I have talked about is men (and Marilyn Monroe) going without a shirt. I do get carried away and when I get loaded with five cups of coffee in perfect succession, you can bet that I have another subject to share up my sleeve. Uh, oh! I am not wearing sleeves. I am shirtless. It feels a lot like those kids with six layers of swine mud plastered on themselves at Woodstock, August 15, 1969. 750,000 people were able to stay awake for one day. A little known fact about Woodstock says that when this first of it’s kind, an Arts and Music Fair was held, Max Yasgur, the farmer who rented those several acres of pasture land so huge stages and tall scaffolding could be built to make Woodstock a reality—well, he stopped raising pigs on the spot and retired happy and very wealthy. Way to go, Max.
Let me be gentle as I walk away—and please, tell someone you love that you “do” understand the overall meaning in this commentary about Shirtless People, but you said something earlier about Olympics Decathlon winner, Bill Toomey, running past all of his challengers to win this huge event. I sure did. Have you ever entertained the interesting idea about when tension is felt in the air from a neighboring evil country, the leader(s) of Democratic countries all want to run away in a peaceful fashion as to not harbor on looking like War Pigs? But the people in this same Democratic country who aren’t afraid to be seen without shirts, all get out their warships and yell with a bullhorn: “Come get some!”
You can’t forget our 42nd President, William “Bill” Jefferson Clinton. He was not only the rowdiest, boldest, but smooth as Jif peanut butter when an important piece of legislation needed to be made into law. Good ‘Ol Boy, Bill Clinton. Never seen him without a shirt, but you would have to talk to former White House aide, Monica Lewinsky about that. But I did see him in jogging attire—with legs shining as he toddled down the sidewalk with his Secret Service men headed to the nearest McDonald’s. Clinton was trying to keep himself in shape. What a front to fool Hillary just so he could eat a Big Mac. But he had “privates” as big as a lard bucket.
So am I assuming that people without shirts are naturally brave and the people who love the feeling of a warm shirt against their skin being wimpy? Okay. You make the call. I have that much confidence in you.
Personally . . . when I am in my house, you cannot weld a shirt on my back. I hate shirts. Not because I am a grumpy old grunt, but because I have Neurothopy—caused when my nerve endings were permanently damaged in 2003 when my appendix ruptured. Sick information, but a true fact. But many times in the summer when I choose to dart outside carrying a trusted cup of coffee, I do NOT hold in wearing a shirt. It is a direct insult to the Sun. Am I right or am I right?
Now for my Closing Remarks. I have been talking about men going with and without shirts. And why. But if you would like, I could name a few men who are Almost Famous and you tell me if you think they would look better with or without a shirt: Dick Vermeil; Gary Burghoff; Michael Caine; Spiro Agnew; Dennis Weaver; Johnny Crawford; Johnny Weissmuller: Broderick Crawford: Joan Crawford; Linda Evans; Jimmy Johnson; Paul McCartney; Alf; and probably the one person who would, without a doubt, look completely out of place if standing on a beach without a shirt, but wearing regular shoes and slacks: Alan Alda.
Now do you see why I love America so much?
© 2018 Kenneth Avery