A Short Conversation with Trump as We Approach the July 4th Holiday

 

“Perry? Perry Block?”

“Who’s that?”

“It’s me, your favorite President, Donald J. Trump.”

“Yes, Trump?”

“You can call me ‘Donald.’”

“Yes, Trump?”

“I notice you subscribe to a lot of subversive, crazy, lunatic far-left commentators on Substack.”

“That’s impressive.”

“How’s that?”

“That you know a three-syllable word like subversive and a four-syllable word like commentator.”

“Do you read all those lunatic left-wing nut jobs?”

“Nah. I barely have time for that.”

“Why don’t you unsubscribe from them?”

“Because I’m afraid that if I unsubscribe from even one of them somewhere, sometime, somehow... you might be smiling.”

“Why don’t you try it?”

“Okay, Trump. Right now I’m unsubscribing from Robert Reich, Paul Krugman, Jim Acosta, The Contrarian, Joyce Vance, J Street, IfNotNow, Heather Cox Richardson, Zeteo, The Intercept, Mehdi Hasan, Brad Lander, The New Republic, the ACLU, the Delco Democrats, Gabby Giffords, Haaretz, The New York Times, AOC, Jon Ossoff, Andy Borowitz, and any number of less famous people on Substack, Facebook, and Instagram who despise you as much as I do.”

“Don’t you want to know if I’m smiling now?”

“No. Because no matter what you answer, you’ll be lying. Just like you do about everything else.”

“Okay, but I am smiling!”

“Why is that?”

“Because I got you to unsubscribe from all those nut jobs! Ha, ha, ha!”

“No, you didn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s not even half of them.”

“What?!!”

“And the other half? I read every fucking last word and act accordingly.”

“Now I am frowning.”

“Good. Just like you’ll be frowning when you’re in jail, Trump... where you belong.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Next Up in His Long and Storied Career, Tom Hanks Will Play Your Dad

 

Deadline Hollywood 

Exclusive: Fresh off his triumphal return as the voice of Woody, Disney/Pixar’s venerable franchise pull-string cowboy toy in what is either Toy Story 27 or whatever number they’re up to now, Tom Hanks has signed on for yet another major starring role in his long and storied career.

Production is slated to start in the fall for the yet untitled Stephen Soderbergh -directed vehicle starring the multiple Oscar and Emmy winner in the role of your Dad.

“Tom’s vast experience renders him pitch perfect for playing your Dad,” beamed Director Soderbergh.

“When you are struggling with U.S. Geography in the Ninth Grade Tom as your Dad will sit you down and map out a strategy with the words Houston, We Have a Problem Here.

Tom will also teach you basic survival skills such as making fire and bonding with a volley ball.”

“I have played virtually every other role imaginable from Kip in Bosom Buddies to Mr. Rogers,” said Hanks, but this one critical role has always eluded me.”

“And the warm-hearted scene where I explain to you that Life is, in fact, Like a Box of‘Chocolates - that’s pure movie magic.”

Shawn Levy, the film’s producer, added “We simply couldn’t imagine anyone else in this role - Tom’s talent is Big! We’re betting when Tom Hanks as your Dad hits the screens in mid 2027, audiences will leave the theater crowing You’ve got a friend in me and We know what love is!”

And soon to be announced, but you heard it here first, the role of your Mom will be played by … Your Mom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Perry’s Backasswards Rooms

 

My version is much scarier. You'll see.

I was in the basement of my house in Havertown, PA, where I keep my beer, when I saw a strange light beckoning me to walk straight into a wall.

As I stepped forward, the wall dissolved, and I fell into a vast open space I had never seen before.

“Hell, if I’d known about this years ago,” I thought, “I could have put in a sauna or maybe even an indoor lap pool. But I’ve got to keep knowledge of all this extra square footage away from the township or my real estate taxes will go sky high.”

Yep — I had stumbled into an alternate dimension:

Perry’s Backasswards Rooms.

I walked past huge piles of broken desks and chairs and heard voices murmuring in a variety of languages.

“Gee, the UN General Assembly must have had a helluva party here last night,” I thought, “but somebody ought to clean this all up.”

I moved down the hallway, opened the first door, and was immediately swallowed by a sea of socks.

“Amazing!” I gasped. “So this is where they all go.”

A screaming woman with a distorted face chased me out of the room and deeper into the labyrinth.

“Hey, lady — you had a bad reaction to Botox. It’ll pass!” I shouted.

As I wandered through the maze-like rooms, I encountered even stranger things.

Down another hallway, I ran smack into the famous Lost Colony of Roanoke, missing since 1590, where Virginia Dare — the first British child born in America — had lived.

I asked why the word “Croatoan” was carved into a nearby tree before the colony vanished.

“Because we wouldn’t have had nearly the same cachet in history had we carved ‘Havertown’ into the tree, dumbass!” Virginia Dare told me.

At this point I was hungry, and fortunately I found a snack bar.

Unfortunately, it only served white blobs of substance pulled from the stomach of a comatose zombie-like creature with three eyes and a thoroughly contorted face sitting at a table.

And it was take-out only, so I kept moving.

A huge wooden pirate suddenly charged at me and tried to eat me and I sprinted down another hallway. Where are all the Backasswards termites when you need them?

I ducked into the next room, and there came the greatest shock of all. It was clear to me now that I was in the place where all lost things eventually wind up.

Those googly eyes. That red-and-white striped shirt. The perennially dopey look on his face.

“OMG,” I stammered. “You’re Waldo — of Where’s Waldo? fame!”

“Yes, I am,” he replied. “This is where I come to rest between gigs, but now that you’ve found me, my career is ruined.”

I told Waldo I could keep my mouth shut about his whereabouts, and he thanked me.

“That is, Waldo — as long as your money’s green and the price is right.”

And so an unexpected source of extra income has emerged from the bizarre and mysterious space I now know as Perry’s Backasswards Rooms.

And if I can just find a contractor somewhere down here, maybe I can finally put that sauna and pool in too.

 I promised him a cameo in my version if he promised not to eat anyone.

Playing "Pretend to the Person I Pocket Dialed That I Actually Meant to Call Them"

  

I’m amazed at the games people play on their phones like Minecraft & Candy Crush and the various and sundry casino gambling games. 

I play none of these. 

The only game I play is "Pretend to the Person I Pocket Dialed That I Actually Meant to Call Them."

 

Just last week I heard a voice.

 

“Perry… Perry …” it said

 

I said “who’s talking?”

 

The voice said “this is Denis. I  think you pocket dialed me.”

 

I said “Oh no, Denis, I meant to call you!” 

 

Those words are reflexive.  They spew from my mouth like lava from an active volcano.

 

“So, Denis, umm, how’s ….”

 

Think, man, think! What’s his wife’s name.  Think! Think!

 

“How’s Nancy?”

 

“Oh gee, I’m sorry.  How long ago? Oh, that long. My condolences.”

 

Now what? I already sound like an idiot.

 

“Still in the insurance business?”

 

“Bankruptcy,  eh? You working? No. Looking? That long? Oh, gee!”

 

Say something else, Perry. Anything!

 

“How’s your brother-in-law who worked for  you, I forget  his name …. oh, gee, I’m sorry.  How long ago?”

 

The next words spewed from my mouth like lava from an active volcano.

 

“So, Denis, wanna do lunch?” 

 

I have had any number of boring pointless lunches with any number of people I hated the thought of having lunch with just to save the blatant admission of an ignominious pocket dial.

 

Why does this keep happening?

 

I have all my phone numbers on speed dial because I can’t remember numbers. I’m so bad at getting and processing phone numbers that I have dialed the generalissimos of small Latin American countries when I meant to call the plumber.

 

One of them even showed up more reliably than the plumber.

 

And with all my numbers front and center on my phone it’s easy to bump the phone and set in play the Kabuki theater you have just witnessed.

 

There seemed to be  only one answer: remove everyone from speed dial  and let Siri make all my phone calls. And so, just yesterday …

 

“Hey, Siri, call Ellen Cohen.” 

“Calling Alan Coburn.” 

“No, no, no, Siri, not Alan Coburn!   Ellen Cohen! Ellen Cohen!” 

“Hello, hello, who is this?”

“Oh, Alan,  umm … this is Perry … I - I didn’t mean to call you, but this isn’t a pocket dial!” 

“No?” 

“This is a Siri Dial.” 

“A Siri dial?” 

“Uh, yeah, a Siri dial.” 

“You mean you’re too lazy to even pocket dial a person?!!” 

“No, well, I thought I could …” 

“This is way worse than a pocket dial, you asshole!” 

The next words spewed from my mouth like lava from an active volcano. 

“So Alan, wanna do lunch?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

It’s National Nude Day And I Aim To Bare All!

 

Today is a special day!

That is, virtually every day on the calendar is a special day.

Each one celebrates some aspect of our everyday lives, and I’m out to honor as many of them as I can.

· On National Asparagus Day, I ate Asparagus.

· On National Cheese Day, I fairly well induced vomiting, as I famously hate cheese.

· On National Floss Day, I broke tradition and flossed.

And July 14 is National Nude Day, a day that celebrates “the idea that the human body is natural and nothing to be ashamed of.”

And so as morning dawned on July 14, 2025, I pulled off the T-shirt I sleep in, stepped out of my pajama bottoms, and went Full Tilt Boogie in the hall mirror.

Not a pretty sight.

I happen to have a back shaped like the punctuation mark at the end of a properly phrased response to a Jeopardy clue.

It took a bit of a stretch but I convinced myself that what I beheld was nothing to be ashamed of.

There were no special events or parades in Philly and I didn’t want to celebrate all alone so I thought to call my ex-girlfriend Sandra, the one who’s always buying me clothes.

“Perry, just thinking of you. I had some sweaters in hand yesterday at Nordstrom’s that are perfect for you.”

“Sandra this isn’t about clothes. You should know that today, July 14, is a very special day on the calendar.”

“Oh, I know it’s Bastille Day."

“Yes, but it’s also National Nude Day.”

“C’mon! Is that for real?”

“Yeah, it is. Now would you like to come over to my house, take off all your clothes, and cavort on my back lawn with me?"

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!!”

“No, I was just thinking ….”

“This is a shameless ploy to see me naked again, isn’t it?”

“No, no, no! It’s a day for celebrating the idea that the human body is natural and nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Perry, you’re an idiot!!”

“Well, I don’t know about that.”`

“An idiot with a back shaped like the punctuation mark at the end of a properly phrased response to a Jeopardy clue.”

“Yeah, there is that.”

So there I was all alone at 11:47 on the night of July 14, sitting there in my birthday suit and state of mind and watching reruns of Jeopardy.

That Ken Jennings is quite the host.

Now July 14 is fast approaching once more.

Do you - by any chance - feel like helping me celebrate the idea that the human body is natural and nothing to be ashamed of?

Didn’t think so.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometimes You Just Can't Separate the Art from the Artist

 

In the worlds of art, literature, music — really anywhere in the realm of human endeavor — it can often be difficult to separate the art from the artist.

I learned that firsthand during my brief stint as assistant to the curator of an art gallery in Philly.

“Welcome, Ambrose, we’re thrilled to showcase your work!” I gushed as I greeted the latest artist we were exhibiting, Ambrose Dehaven.”

“I’m not satisfied with the way you’ve arranged my paintings,” Ambrose replied flatly.

“I need to make crucial aesthetic changes immediately.”

With that, he moved "Still Life with Stale Fruit" to the opposite wall and hung "Starry, Starry Night Sweats" catty‑corner to the Men’s Room.

Odd, but okay.

Then Ambrose stayed all day in the gallery, surveilling his paintings like a man

guarding rare treasures, adjusting the picture frames by millimeters, and repeatedly performing that sensitive gesture where you kiss your fingers and fling them outward towards the object or objects of your admiration and affection.

In this case, his paintings.

Every one of his paintings.

At closing time I said, “It’s 5:00, Ambrose. Time to lock up and go home.”

“Oh,  no, I’m not leaving,” he declared. “I always have a sleepover with my paintings.”

The next morning I went straight to the curator.

“With respect to Ambrose Dehaven,” I said, “I’m afraid I cannot separate

the art from the artist.”

“That can often be difficult,” she replied. “But you must try.”

Ambrose slept over the next night and the next night after that.

I tried to encourage him to leave the gallery. I offered to take him out to the best steak dinner in town, fix him up with my sister even though I don’t have one, and told him I would sleep over in his place and tell compelling campfire stories to "Whistler’s Stepmother."

No dice.

One day a bedraggled woman entered the gallery.

“Please come home, Ambrose!” she begged. “Little Ambrose needs you!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dehaven,” I said to her. “Nothing I say or do will separate the

art from the artist.”

After eight long days - and nights - finally the exhibition ended.

“Goodbye, Ambrose,” I said. “I guess you’ll go home now to see little Ambrose.”

“Who?”

And with that, Ambrose left the gallery, gently cradling "American Goth Girl" and

"Whistler’s Stepmother" in his arms.

With Ambrose gone, we prepared for the next artist.

“I hope I won’t have a problem with this one like I did with Ambrose,” I told the curator. “This time will I be able to separate the art from the artist?”

“Well… yes and no.”

“Excuse me?”

“This artist definitely goes home at night.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“On the other hand, his name is Vlad.”

“Vlad who?”

“Vlad the Impaler.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I never even knew this guy could paint!

A Very Embarrassing Tale of the Zeitgeist

 

All of us acquire nicknames now and then but most of them come and go, especially those from our earlier days.

But sometimes they’re not always gone for good.

I was in my favorite coffee shop with my favorite barista Julie a couple months ago, and I ordered my usual cappuccino.

"Here you go, Space Cowboy," she said nonchalantly as she handed it to me.

"Excuse me, Julie... what did you call me?"

"Space Cowboy," she laughed. "What they called you when you smoked a ton of weed – you called it dope - in your late teens and early twenties."

"But... but ..how would you know that?!"

"Oh, it's out there in the zeitgeist. Everyone knows it."

"That's so embarrassing, Julie! It was another time in my life. I was insecure."

"So what else is new? I dunno how many nice promising women you turned off being too goddamn high."

"You even know that?!"

"Yep. It's all out there. See ya, Space Cowboy."

But I had an open mic that night, so I tried to shake it off.

"Give it up for Sarah!" the host said as the previous comic left the stage. "Next up is a familiar face. Let's hear it for Captain Quaalude!"

"OMG! Dylan, what did you call me?!"

"Captain Quaalude,” he laughed. "What they called you when you downed all those ludes when you were hitting the discos in your late twenties

"But... but ..how would you know that?!"

"Zeitgeist, dude.”

"That's so embarrassing, Dylan! It was another time in my life. I was insecure."

"So what else is new?  I dunno how many nice, promising women you turned off being too goddamn high."

"You even know that?!"

"Yep. It’s all out there. Now get the fuck on with your set, Captain Quaalude!"

I had to know what else was out there. I raced home and called my friend Brian from work a few years back.

"Brian!" I practically shouted. "Everyone knows my embarrassing nicknames from when I was younger! You know me from a couple years ago. Was I called those names then?"

"Hello, Genial Underachiever," he said. "No, you weren't."

Okay. Well, at least that one doesn't involve drugs.

 I’ll take it.

What’s out there in the zeitgeist for you?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Fahrenheit 451 + 10 (My Parody from 2012)

 

(On MS NOW today, Ali Velshi explained that Tennessee has incredibly sought to ban Fahrenheit 451 from school bookshelves throughout the state.

Wow.

In honor of that groundbreaking book, here's Fahrenheit 451 + 10, my parody from 2012.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Montag was alone, sitting by a brook on the outskirts of the settlement. 

Sure, he was helping to keep knowledge alive in the dark times by memorizing and becoming a book. But after these ten odd years, a dark sadness had descended upon him, sapping his spirit and diminishing his soul. 

A tall man with a ruddy complexion and piercing eyes approached him. 

"Hello, my friend.  Why are you so morose?"

"Oh, hullo,  Great Expectations.  I'm kind of bummed out because I'm just not getting anywhere with the ladies.  You ever have any problems like that?" 

"Me?  No,  not at all,"  said the tall man.  "I'm Great Expectations.   I intrigue the hell out of women!   Y'know, I've been diddling Madame Bovary for the past three months!"

"Well, it's sure different for me.  Ever since I joined the Book People and selected a book to become, women don't take me seriously. Hell, they treat me like a child!  

"Well, what do you think the problem is, Goodnight Moon?  

"The problem is I can't compete with the more macho books!  Last night I went to a single's bar with Captains Courageous and Last of the Mohicans.  We ran into two chicks,  Anna Karenina and Tess of the d'Urbervilles."

"And?" 

"Right away Captains Courageous pairs off with Anna Karenina and hasn't been home since. I spent the whole evening playing Ms. Pac Man while watching Tess of the d'Urbervilles  grind into Last of the Mohicans on the dance floor!" 

"Well,  maybe some woman will admire you for your warm sentimental values as opposed to manliness."

"That only goes so far, Great Expectations.  Can you imagine: 

 Ride me, Goodnight Moon! 

 Give it to me, Goodnight Moon! 

It just doesn't work."

"I just had a thought, Goodnight Moon.   A new woman recently joined the group;  name's  Dr. Zhivago.  She looks a bit like a young Julie Christie." 

"I've seen her!  That Dr. Zhivago's hot as hell!"

"Well, I'll introduce you.  Straighten yourself up,  clean up your punctuation, and remember to stay in proper tense at all times."

"Okay, okay!  Y'know, if all goes well, Great Expectations,  one day Dr. Zhivago might become Mrs. Dr. Zhivago Goodnight Moon!" 

"Let's not rush things, Goodnight Moon.   But should you happen to get lucky,  do me one favor?"  

"What's that, Great Expectations?"

"For God's sakes, don't shout out:

Goodnight, Mus-s-s-s-h-h-H-H-H!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~