Pot of gold

Stop! Stop everything! I know where the gold is!
It looks like it is buried in my garden, at the end of the rainbow that miraculously appeared yesterday.

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The leprechauns haunting my garden must have stashed their gold coins in my backyard, and all I need to do is to negotiate with them what is my fair share of the loot
Because possession is nine-tenths of the law, isn’t it? It is in my garden therefore what’s buried in it belongs to me. That’s what my Tinsel Town lawyer told me.

Even if they were not keen on sharing their gold with me, I could trap one of these little guys and in exchange for his freedom I could demand three wishes.
Because if ever captured by a human, the Leprechaun has the magical power to grant three wishes in exchange for their release. That’s the law.

Now, what would I do with my three wishes? Difficult question!

I would have to be very careful because once granted, wishes cannot be rescinded.
So what could I wish for? I am handsome, smart, talented, charming… What could a guy like me possibly want?
Broads? Booze? Boules?

I could wish for making that *#&@* Fiskal Kliff fall off the surface of the earth.
I could wish for transforming all the guns of the world into spaghetti.
I could wish for transforming all hate-peddlers into comedians. In spite of themselves they could not help telling jokes and making people laugh.

So, what am I going to do may you ask?
Well, I am not going to tell you. For to come true, wishes cannot be divulged.

But you better be nice to me because if you cross me I could unload a nasty spell on you.
On the other hand, if you want to curry my favors, let it be known that I am fond of suckling pigs, Parma Hams and goose “rillettes”.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!


The gun problem in the US

There are not enough guns in circulation in the US. We must add some more.
This is in effect what Wayne LaPierre (French for Wayne the Stone) executive vice president of the National Rifle Association is saying.

To solve America’s killing epidemics we need to put armed guards just about everywhere. Especially in schools.
“The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun,” Mr. LaPierre said to reporters Friday.

School children will be required to wear body armor (helmets too) and be kept from harm by pistol packing mamas. Rocket Propelled Grenades might also be kept in schools’ arsenals.
It is only when everybody is armed to the teeth that killing epidemics will stop.

We should also start building personal bunkers and surround our properties with barbed wires and minefields.
We should all start to wear uniforms to distinguish us from the bad guys.
Black for the bad guys and white for the good guys.

And who is going to be in charge? Militias of course.

“A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”

Thank God for our good old Second Amendment. But shouldn’t you belong to a registered militia to have the right to bear arms?

And what about people who don’t like guns? What are we going to do with these bad Americans, these losers?
I suggest that we put them in internment camps, like our leaders did with the Japanese in World War Two.

Peace loving Americans should look up to the Afghanistan tribal areas where everybody carries guns and where nobody is killed, except  for good reasons. Like the audacity of some wenches who have the insolence to demand education.
Everybody knows that women should be kept barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen!

Pastor Martin Niemöller (1892–1984) said:

First they came for the communists, 
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a communist.
Then they came for the socialists, 
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, 
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a trade unionist.
Then they came for me, 
and there was no one left to speak for me.

And when the gun-wielding psychos will come for you, there will be nobody to speak for you.

Stop this insanity and shame your legislators into toughening our pathetically lax gun control laws.



Le coup du Père Noel

I originally wrote this story a few years ago. I still like it and I decided to republish it. So here you are.


For Santa Claus, December and January have always been busy months. From the North Pole he routinely treks to Europe, Asia, Africa and even to Russia where he is affectionately known as Grandpa Frost.

Being politically correct, Santa has to be careful of avoiding diplomatic “faux-pas”. Wherever he goes, he has to dress the part, and because of this he carries in his trunk more outfits than Cher in her farewell tour.
It is only natural that after that busy period of the year Santa seeks a little peace far away from the hue and cry of big cities.

Usually, when the holiday season is over, Santa Claus takes refuge in the South of France, in a little village of the Provence area.
It just happens that in his spare time Santa likes to play Pétanque and there is no better place for this than the little village of C. where Pétanque have been practiced for a least a century.
Santa had been going there incognito for years and he had become a fixture of the local Pétanque court.

When he first arrived, he gave his first name as Noel, and ever since, because of his portly and debonair appearance, the locals took to calling him “Père Noel” (old man Noel). Little did they know…
Noel, never betrayed his identity. Upon arriving in C. he would slip into a pair of shorts, an old Hawaiian shirt and sandals.  He would also don an old straw hat and a pair of dark sunglasses.
The locals did not know much about him except that he was some kind of a businessman and that he was a Northerner. For most of the “Provençaux”, anybody hailing from north of Valence is a Northerner.
But Noël proved to be a jovial and congenial fellow and everybody adopted him.
Everybody, except a certain Léandre who was unanimously disliked by the rest of the players.

Leandre was a skinny and quarrelsome fellow who resented the popularity of this “Northerner” while he, a native son, was routinely disparaged by his own people.
Noel played mainly as a “pointeur” and everybody praised his uncanny ability to “deliver the goods”. In a pinch you could always rely on Le Père Noel to place a winning or defensive shot.

Léandre was known as a “tireur” (shooter) and he was a fairly good one.
So it was not unusual for Noel and Léandre to cross swords in the arena.
When Noel would place a great ball hugging the cochonnet, Léandre would shoot it and blow it out of the way. He was a good shooter, but not a gracious one. He would always accompany his shots with disparaging comments about his opponent.

After a while, despite his sunny disposition, Le Père Noel grew tired of Leandre’s remarks and demeanor.
He challenged him to a “friendly little game” and to sweeten the deal he stipulated that the loser would reward the winner with “un cochon de lait” (suckling pig) and a case of Chateauneuf du Pape.
Léandre, sure of his skills and enticed by the tempting prize, accepted the challenge without any hesitation.
The game was to be played in 15 points with 5 balls for each player.

Alerted by the local gossips, the entire village gathered to watch the historic match between skinny Léandre and rotund Noel.
Heavy bets were placed on each contender.
The “cochon de lait” and the case of wine were there for the winner to take home.

Le Père Noel started very well, placing superb balls near the cochonnet, only to be shot and dispersed all over the field by the murderous accuracy of Léandre.
But Le Père Noel persisted and Léandre started to get a little tired of shooting and started to miss.
The lead went back and forth between Léandre and le Père Noel, until Léandre mistakenly hit the cochonnet and pushed it a good 20 meters away from the starting circle.

Le Père Noel had 2 balls left and Léandre 3.

The score was now 14 to 12 in favor of Léandre. He needed only one more point to take the cochon de lait, the wine and the everlasting glory home.
Le Père Noel crouched, aimed carefully and placed a great ball about three inches in front of le “petit”.
Léandre, almost without aiming, shot his first ball and missed by a few inches. He threw his second ball and missed again. He cursed loudly in Provençal. Summoning all his skills he shot his last ball and hit a stunning “carreau”. His ball hit and took the place of his opponent.

That ball was now about 2 inches in front of the cochonnet and Le Père Noel had only one ball left. He was not known as a shooter, and at this distance (about 20 yards) with a wall of balls in front of him, the situation looked pretty hopeless.

Le Père Noel walked slowly to the cochonnet to appraise the situation. Léandre watched him with an ironic smirk on his face.

Le Père Noel walked back to the starting circle, cleaned his sunglasses, stroke his beard and after a few seconds he let his last ball fly. It flew  slow-motion-like in a perfect orb  and hit Leandre’s ball squarely on its head.
With a strange, almost plaintive sound, Leandre’s ball disintegrated and scattered in a multitude of small pieces.

The crowd stood still for a few seconds and suddenly erupted in wild cheers. Vive le Père Noel, they cried, vive le Père Noel.
Léandre totally stunned, stood paralyzed, incapable of making any move or any sound.

The crowd started to rush toward the Père Noel when an odd swishing sound was heard. A sleigh drawn by nine snorting reindeers swooshed down from the sky, and Le Père Noel carrying the piglet and the case of wine under each arm jumped aboard and disappeared, never to be seen again.

To this day, the villagers are still talking about this strange turn of events and the mythic “coup du Père Noel”.
Léandre left the village never to return.

There are some rumors that le Père Noel has been seen playing Pétanque in Copacabana.