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Now I lay me down with grief.

I pray The Lord, please let me sleep.


If I should shrink before I awake,

I pray The Lord my clothes to take.


It’s not so much that clothing clutters;

It’s just material, in bulk, that matters.


Such yardage, bondage of yon stark seat,

Designed to clad the cellulite.


The muted shades, the basic black,

My closet does a garden lack.


No flowery garb or bright hues sing

Of carefree days or careless fling.


Oh, Lord, return my sleek, svelte shell.

Oh, Lord, please keep me from the well.


Of pasta, bread, all goodies, more,

Oh, Lord, please slap me in the store.


Confuse me not, damn fashion trends.

My bulky waist just will not bend.


If famine comes, I will survive.

There’s much to burn.  I’ll stay alive.


But must it really come to that?

I’d rather dream-away the fat.


My prayer is, thus, laid at your feet.

Don’t force me to rely on sheets.


To swaddle is no longer chic.

Good God, I’ve finally reached my peak.


Inspire, now, some science mass.

And melt the flesh right off my ass.







Burp, burp, burp resounded the burrito-filled mass of humanity at the local Taqueria one night.

'twas just a simple syncopated rhythm within 'em.  But the whining wails of the EMS sirens did not quell the mass hysteria.  And the cadence of the sirens whoop-whoops harmonized with the rumbling sound of airy regurgitation and the crescendo of staccato expellation(*).

Oh, the cruel, cruel comedic finger of fate did visit upon the appetites of many sorry souls that sad, spicy, salsa-tinged eve. 

The saucy secretary supped alongside the excruciatingly exacting executive. 

A bevy of babbling Bimbos and Bimbettes(*) blew blowzy kisses to the bodaciously buff boys of the construction crew. 

A fractious family of five fought over a scanty serving of garishly green guacamole. 

Noticeably noxious was the gargantuan group from Heavenly Haven Senior Sailors' Marina.  Their silver-tipped noggins nodded and bobbed as they were besieged by bubbling burps. 

Too polite to loosen their bombastic barrage, these colorfully coordinated compadres tempered the rising tide by boldly employing bodily containment. 

Alas, it was for naught, as the ancient Gobs and their weathered Gobettes did later attest. 

All Hell broke in unison past those barnacled bellies.  Yes, the containment level was breached, and a boffo, basso-profundo chorus declared its presence with scented vigor. 

A plethora of Paparazzi responded to record every nuance of emotion.  The National Guard's guerrilla squad arrived, masked and ready to revive all who were felled by the fumes of flatulence. 

The singularity of the situation became a rallying cry to pharmacists far and near:


   "In fizzy form or chalky chew,

   Bring it, thus, to heal the mewl

   Of young and old (especially old)

   Who thought it macho

   To follow nacho

   With potent burrito –

   Loaded with borracho-soaked beans."        


   The call was answered. 

   The doses divvied. 

   The masses bowed, and sought the privy. 

   A simple sigh surfed breathy waves

   And blessed the saviors with accolades. 

   For one must never doubt the might

   Of beany(*) bon-bons late at night.


So wags the end of another "Cheeky Chihuahua Tale."  

(Disclaimer: No animals or humans were severely harmed during this episode.  Words and spelling(*), however, appeared at the mercy and whim of the author.)




We were, once, a serendipitous nation

Lost in arrogance

And bathed in honorable righteousness.


We bowed to no one.

But bent our knees to our God.

Yet, understanding drew us upright.


We fed, clothed, and defended an entire world.

Most were grateful.

Some barely remember us.


We reached out to many

And blessed them with opportunity.

Yet, many now spit on our outstretched hand.


We once fought within ourselves.

The wounds still fester.

The generations want their division of wealth.


We begin to repeat ourselves in destructive ways.

Disenchanted insiders cheer disruptive outsiders.

The world eagerly applauds our dilemma.


We tremble and trip over honorable righteousness.

We are lost in others’ arrogance.

We were, once, a serendipitous nation.






I stood by the Well and considered my thirst.

The Pump seemed rusted and doubt stabbed my parched, burning greed.


Shall I try for just a few drops of that precious resource?

Or shall I siphon madly and drain the fragile Host?


Just one more chance might be all I get.

And, yet, my arrogant, privileged life has taught me...


That there will always be another drop, another scam, another feeding frenzy

Towards fulfilling my continued existence.





I often wonder if what I do actually makes a difference, or even matters to anyone else but myself.  Most of the time my wondering screams back: invalid search.

The reason I bring this up, at this time, is because my illicit affair with social media, image building and internet presence is just a wee bit beyond the one-year stage. 

I say illicit because I was pretty much shamed into sticking my toes into places where I am, at best, merely a friendly intruder. 

Yes, I’m an example of a Hot-Top-Fringer, or #HTP for those Twitter hashtag addicts. 

You have a hot topic?  Well, here I am.  I’m your Hot-Top-Fringer.  My motto is: “I lurk, so you don’t shirk.”    

I tweet.  I tweet-up.  I write things on this website.  I even give Facebook a shot every so often.  I strive for modest success and respect.  I ride the whole scene of current trending, website reinforcement, and personal branding upon a cloud of spit and duct tape.  And I’m a fraud.

Why am I a fraud?  It’s very simple.  I am not trying to build a business.  I’m not trying to make money by writing frothy fiction or skewed reality.  I’m in it for the SUNSHINE.

Yes, you heard me right.  I’m in it for the SUNSHINE.    

I enjoy the happiness of being involved.  I enjoy witnessing enthusiasm.  I insist upon voicing my opinions.  I like foolishness for the sake of honest expression.  I like humor.  I like words.  I like words that are naughty and words that are nice.  (A monetary honorarium is not hateful.  It could be counted as a SUNSHINE thing.)  I like the SUNSHINE things.

So, now, where does the shame figure in this expose?  Cancer is the reason -- cancer, and the ‘poor, poor pitiful me’ who needed to be shamed into admitting that I still had the ability to think and to continue experiencing life.

“You’ve got to join Twitter,” insisted my son.  And, so, I did.  @pressmaam became a twittering fool in a short time.

Then he talked me into getting a website.  Pressmaam became a blabber.  Oops, I mean a blogger.

Since like tends to gravitate towards like, my son’s suggestion that I follow/join-in our local Social Media Club and BMPR (Business, Media, Public Relations) groups’ activities made sense.  Pressmaam moved to the in-person experience.  Methods and thinking undergo changes over the years, but some hard basics remain.  My work experience fit.

That’s it folks.  Needs and solutions met, and something that seemed impossible, very simply, made a huge impact on my life.  I’ll admit that I am not always ready or able to attend gatherings, but I really enjoy the ones I can attend.  The various Camp (instructional classes) efforts are always tempting, and I hope to do at least one. 

It’s also very nice and healing to be able to say the things that have been said here. 

I still struggle with the known and the unknown, and that struggle is the very reason I decided to write this, at this time. 

I’m still in it for the SUNSHINE.  And I hope you all find your SUNSHINE, too. 


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