Letter From Milo: Fake!

April 16th, 2019

Every once in a while my brother-in-law sends me porn in an email. It’s usually a bit of fluff that someone sends him and he forwards it to me. Now, I’m not saying my brother-in-law is a pervert – you’d have to ask my sister about that – but he does enjoy a bit of porn on occasion.

The porn he sends me is actually pretty tame stuff. It usually has a humorous bent to it. For example, this past holiday season he forwarded me an attachment that had a Christmas card from the then-President. The subject line of the email read, “Greetings from George and Laura’s Bush.” The picture was of President and Mrs. Bush, full frontal naked, smiling and waving from one of the doorways of the White House.

It was obviously a Photoshop job and not very well done. I looked at it for a few moments before deleting it. The computer I use is accessible to my wife and children and I don’t like leaving anything on it that would offend their tender sensibilities. They have a low enough opinion of me anyway without adding porn freak to their list of grievances.

In my youth I was as intrigued by the nude female form as any sex-deprived young hetero male. In those days opportunities for seeing naked women were rare. Along with my equally horny young friends, we made every effort to satisfy our sexual curiousity. As teenagers, we snuck into burlesque houses in the dying days of the art form (see my earlier post about the Follies Theater on State Street.) We hoarded magazines like Playboy, according them the same respect and awe that a baseball nerd reserves for a Honus Wagner collector card.

A few years later, when social mores loosened, I saw “Deep Throat” starring Linda Lovelace at the Tivoli Theater in Gary, Indiana. A couple of years later I saw “The Devil in Miss Jones,” starring the great Georgina Spelvin at a theater in San Francisco.

When home theater technology became available I rented a couple of VHS tapes at the local video store (pre-Blockbuster days) but found them, on the whole, pretty boring. By that time I had experienced a bit of the real thing and, like most sportsman, I preferred to participate rather than watch from the sidelines.

Years later, when the great Internet explosion occurred, I was pretty much bored with the whole concept of watching other people copulate. I generally paid no mind to the filmed shenanigans of bored housewives, mustachioed UPS drivers, horny cheerleaders, naughty nurses, pizza delivery boys, errant nuns, French maids and doctors with unorthodox bedside manners.

One thing I did notice, however, was the proliferation of fake tits. It seemed that all the ladies in these films were as inflated as Michelin tires, their breasts grotesquely large and sometimes misshapen. They seemed to defy all known laws of physics and gravity.

Fake tits weren’t restricted to porn stars. The popped up everywhere. From Hollywood and Vine to Main Street USA, fake tits became as common as coffee shops. I read an article in a legitimate newspaper that trumpeted the fact that some parents were buying breast implants for their daughters as high school graduation presents. Every once in awhile my dear wife, who works in an industry with a preponderence of women, will tell me that so-and-so just got a boob job. She will say this as casually as if mentioning what were were having for dinner that evening.

“Why would she do that?’ I asked. “I thought she looked pretty good.”

“Well, she’s had three kids.”

“So?”

“Maybe she wants to look better. Improve her self-esteem.”

“How old is she?”

“I don’t know, 50 maybe.”

“Jesus, who’s she trying to fool.”

“I guess she just wants to feel better about herself.”

“If she want to feel better she should get a dog. Dogs always make you feel good.”

“I swear, sometimes you sound like a complete idiot.”

“I love you too, babe.”

Maybe I’m being a boob about this, but I hate fake tits. I hate the mindset behind them, the pathetic attempts by some women to re-engineer their bodies in the hopes that their lives will magically change for the better. That’s a lot to expect from bags of saline solution or petroleum byproducts.

Maybe I’m a dumbass, but why are fake tits considered sexy and false teeth are not? Why are fake tits deemed an asset while a prosthetic leg is considered unfortunate? Why are fake tits considered good for self-esteem while a glass eye is basically good for nothing.

I guess I’ll never figure it out. Ah, well, whoever said, Vanity, thy name is woman, might have been on to something. Wait a minute, the doorbell just rang. I hope it’s FedEx. I recently ordered a Swedish Dick Extender on the Internet and it due to arrive at any time. Gotta run.

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Letter From Milo: Sweet Stuff

April 7th, 2019

This will be my last posting for a while. As I mentioned in earlier pieces, I’m taking a couple of weeks off for surgery. When I told Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this scabby, inept and flatulent outfit, that I needed some time off, he got mean and ugly.

“What kind of surgery did you say it was?”

“Heart surgery.”

“And you want two weeks off for something like that?”

“Maybe a little more. Depends on how recovery goes.”

“You’re being kind of selfish. Two weeks seems excessive.”

“Just following doctor’s orders.”

“Quit being a pussy. Benny Jay had brain surgery and a penile implant and he did it on his lunch hour.”

“Yeah, well, Benny’s tough.”

“Jon Randolph had every single one of his internal organs replaced with Teflon and styrofoam and he was back at his desk the next day.”

“Jon’s tough, too.

“Don’t expect me to hold your job for you. Writers are a dime a dozen. I’ve got a blog to run.”

“I figured.”

“And don’t expect any sick pay, either.”

“I wasn’t counting on it.”

“Other than that, good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“Bastard.”

“Prick.”

Now that I’ve told the Barn Boss that I’ll be absent for a couple of weeks, I’ll have to notify all of my favorite bartenders, drug dealers, bookies, waitresses, and pool room proprietors that I won’t be patronizing their establishments for a while. I’m sure they’ll understand.

That’s it for now. If there are any old hippies, freaks or New Agers out there, remember to send some good vibes in my direction on October 6th. Be talking to you soon.

Note:

In my absence the Editors are going to rerun a couple of my past blog postings. I hope they amuse, inform and offend you as much as they did the first time around.

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Letter From Milo: Dental Blues

April 1st, 2019

Oh, the bastards, the rotten sons of bitches. They tracked me down.

If you recall from my last posting, a dentist advised me that I had to have several teeth pulled before my heart surgery. I got a second opinion, of course, but the second dentist agreed with the first. Well, they have their opinions and I have mine. I refused to give up any teeth, no matter the reason. What are dentists anyway? What do they know? Dentists are just a bunch of second rate hacks who don’t have the skills or ambition to become real doctors.

Still, there was a lot of pressure on me to get the teeth pulled. Wife, family, friends, all urged me to get them yanked. “It’s for your own good,” they told me. “You don’t want any complications from the heart surgery. Listen to the doctors. They know what’s best.” Plus, no doctor would perform the surgery unless the teeth were extracted. There was too great of a chance of an infection in the new valve they were going to give me.

Well, fuck ’em all. I don’t like people telling me what to do. I decided to make a run for it, get out of Dodge while the getting was good. I chose Canada as my destination because, as I understand it, the Canadian government won’t extradite anyone who is wanted by the dental authorities.

As I was driving out of town, I began feeling a bit thirsty, so I stopped in the lounge of the Diplomat Motel on Lincoln Avenue. I was just going to have a couple for the road, and maybe pick up a half pint for later on. As luck would have it, I ran into a group of my favorite kinds of people; bikers, whores, out-of-work carnies, a three-card monty dealer and a man who claimed to be a rabbi but seemed to be too good of a pool player for someone devoted to the spiritual life.

One thing led to another and by closing time I was roaring drunk. Deciding I was in no shape to drive I checked into a room at the Diplomat, figuring I’d sleep it off and get an early start in the morning. Just to be on the safe side, I checked in under an assumed name, Milton Samardzija.

About five in the morning, as I was having a sweet dream about Montreal, a group of jack-booted thugs kicked in my door and pounced on me. They were the dreaded Gold Tooth Gang, which is the militant wing of the American Dental Association. They dragged me, kicking and screaming, out of my room, the same way the cops dragged William H. Macy out of his motel room in the movie Fargo, by the great Coen brothers.

The next thing I knew, I was strapped into a chair in the dentist’s office. Just before the sadistic bastard started yanking my teeth, he asked, “Do you want something to relax you, some novocaine perhaps?”

“Yes, please.”

“Well, too fucking bad. You’re not getting anything. That’s what you get for trying to run out on the ADA.”

Half an hour later, all four of my wisdom teeth were extracted, plus two others, just for spite in my opinion.

I felt terrible when I got home. I was afraid to look in the mirror. So, I gobbled a handful of industrial-grade pain pills and lay down on the couch to rest for a few minutes. I woke up 12 hours later, still in pain, groggy, unsteady on my feet.

Gathering up my courage, I staggered to the bathroom to get a look at myself in the mirror. I expected the worst and was not disappointed. My face was lumpy and swollen. My eyes were slitted and bloodshot. There was a lump on each side of my jaw the size of an avocado. The greenish-blue signs of bruising were spreading along my jawline. My face and goatee were caked with dried and flaking blood. And when I opened my mouth I could see a noticeable gap in my smile.

Despite my deplorable condition, I knew I was still better looking than Tony Patellis or, for that matter, Doug Hoffman. But that was cold comfort.

At that moment, my daughter, Nadia, walked by. “I must look pretty bad,” I said to her.

She replied, “To be honest, Dad, you looked a lot worse when you came home from partying with Bruce Diksas last Saturday night.”

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Letter From Milo: Mr. Kafka

March 26th, 2019

I’m not 100% certain, but I think it was the great Franz Kafka who said, “Man, there’s always another layer on the shitcake.”

As if having heart surgery isn’t bad enough, now I’ve got something else to fret about. You see, before having heart surgery you have to have a dental examination. The purpose of the exam is to see if you have any oral infections, which can complicate the surgery.

So, I grabbed a cup of coffee at the corner beanery and a Sun-Times (for the crossword puzzle) and headed down to the Jesse Brown V.A. Hospital. I waited in the dental clinic for about half an hour, spending most of the time trying to figure out a seven letter word that means “Yo Mama” in Urdu.

When I finally entered the dentist’s office, I was gratified to see that the dentist had his diploma prominently displayed on the wall. It stated that his name was Dr. Frankie (Disco) Lopez and he was a graduate of the Triple A College of Dentistry & Bait Shop in Gary, Indiana.

After examining me for a few seconds the good doctor smiled sadistically and said, “Looks like I’m going to have to pull all four of your wisdom teeth and maybe a couple of others, just to be on the safe side.”

“What! Are you fucking crazy!”

“Dude, don’t get so excited. What’s the big deal? They’re just teeth. I pull a couple of hundred every day.”

“That’s not the point. You’re a dentist. You’re supposed to try and save teeth.”

“Save your teeth? Is that what you want to me do?”

“You might consider it.”

“Okay. No problem. I’ll save your teeth for you. I’ll leave them with the receptionist. You can pick them up on your way out.”

Needless to say, I’m going to get a second opinion, and a third and fourth if I have to. I’m not giving up a single tooth without a fight. Fuck ’em.

Now, I want you to understand I’m not afraid of having my wisdom teeth pulled. Matter of fact, I’m not afraid of anything. I may be one of the roughest, toughest men you’ll ever meet. I’m mean as a snake. I eat leather and shit pointy-toed cowboy boots. I don’t use napkins when I eat ribs. I once fought Waterfront Alice to a draw in a savage street fight on Lincoln Avenue. I drink tequila without lime or salt. I prefer two-week old sushi to the fresh stuff, I am, in all respects, a bad, bad man.

There is, however, one tiny, itsy bitsy little thing that makes me a bit nervous. It’s called pain. I don’t want anything to do with it. Pain makes chickenshits of us all. I’m going to have enough pain when I undergo heart surgery. The pain of having wisdom teeth extracted is just going to add to the misery.

My eldest daughter, Nadia, had three impacted wisdom teeth extracted a couple of years ago and it broke my heart to see the pain she suffered. The worst thing a parent can experience is watching a child suffer and not be able to help.

The second worst thing is to suffer pain yourself.

So, I’m going to see if there are any alternatives to having my wisdom teeth yanked. I know wisdom teeth are worthless. All they do is cause problems. But i’ve grown fond of them over the years. I’d like to keep them a while longer.

NOTE: Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this decrepit outfit, and his lovely wife, Mrs. Barn Boss, recently relocated from Louisville, Kentucky to Bloomington, Indiana. According to Benny Jay, Big Mike snuck out of town in the middle of the night, owing seven-months rent on The Third City’s corporate offices in downtown Louisville. You’ve got to hand it to the Barn Boss. He’s always looking out for our best interests. Let’s all join in and wish Big Mike and his beauteous Mrs. health and happiness in their new home.

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Letter From Milo: Worry Warts

March 21st, 2019

The piece I posted about my upcoming heart surgery elicited more responses than anything else I have written. Letters and emails poured in to The Third City blog site, and I’d say more than 60% of them were supportive. People wrote to ask if I was okay. They worried about my health. They worried about my state of mind. They worried in general. Most of my readers, apparently, are worriers.

I can’t tell you how much it meant to me to have all of these wonderful people write to express their sympathy and offer best wishes. Marjorie Synakiewicz and Mary Beth Sundstad sent lovely notes. Meryl Streep sent me some used panties. Monica Lewinsky offered to drop by for a few minutes and cheer me up. My good friend, Bruce Diksas, sent me a Hallmark Card with a joint and a ten dollar bill enclosed.

Even Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this shabby outfit, sent me an endearing note, telling me to cut the bullshit and get my next blog ready or else he’d come over and perform the surgery himself.

Anyway, I thought I’d share a few of the letters from well wishers and concerned readers. Here are a few of the heartfelt notes along with my snappy replies.

Letter #1:

Motherfucker, where’s my money!

Snappy reply:

Oops. I’m sorry. That was a letter from a previous piece.

Letter #2:

Great scam, dude! You cam make a lot of money from that heart surgery thing. I made about six grand last year, collecting money for my liver transplant. The funny thing is, I was planning a benefit for myself later this year to collect some bread for a quadruple bypass. I was thinking that maybe we should get together and hold a super benefit. We can make some real money, man. There’s a lot of chumps out there. How about it?

Snappy reply:

Count me in.

Letter #3:

Hello to you. I am presently being Ibeku Nayana, President of the Third National Bank in Lagos, Nigeria. The situation in concern of your heart was pointed to my attention. I am wishing to inform of you the Greater Nigerian Charitable Association has made many funds available for you in this time of your trouble. The sum is $190,000 in USA dollar money to help paying to the doctor who will proceed to operating for you. If you will please and kindly send to me a money order for $300 to cover the necessary paperworking and the international taxing business, I will personally sending to you the $190,000 immediately or sooner, whichever preference you may be wishing.

Snappy reply:

Oh, man! That’s great. I can really use the dough. I’ll send the money order this afternoon.

Letter#4:

I am Doctor Wallace Hafner, the surgeon who will be performing your heart procedure. I was going over my schedule this morning and ran across your name. Are you by any chance the same low-life rotten bastard who was screwing my wife a couple of years ago?

Snappy reply:

Heh, heh. No sir. You must have me confused with another Milo Samardzija

Letter #5:

This is your friend Sven from the Fabulous Swedish Dick Extender Company. I am truly sorry to hear of your recent troubles. You have been a valued customer over the years and we wish you the best of luck in the future. I am sure that after your surgery you will be like a new man, invigorated and ready for, ah, new challenges. That is why I want to inform you of the new model FSDE, which will be available in November. We are calling it the Turbo Extra Large Jumbo Sizer and it comes in two versions: the Louisville Slugger and the Wilt Chamberlain. If you wish, we will save you the version of your choice. The usual terms apply.

Snappy reply:

Always great to hear from you, Sven. I’ll take the Wilt Chamberlain. By the way, can you send clearer instructions this time? Last year’s model, the Seattle Slew, came with a confusing instruction manual. I ended up walking with a limp for about a week and a half. Thanks for thinking of me.

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Letter From Milo: Check Please

March 10th, 2019

There are wonderful things you can hear from your doctor. For me, the ideal would be, “Milo, sir, you are a magnificent physical specimen. You can continue smoking, drinking, eating red meat, gambling, scandalizing the neighbors and fornicating for another 50 years.”

On the other hand, the last words you want to hear from your doctor are “cancer” or “heart disease.” Unfortunately, I heard those dreaded words from my doctor a few weeks ago.

No, it isn’t cancer. It’s heart disease.

Technically, it’s not heart disease, it’s a heart condition. It’s called Arterial Stenosis (you can look it up) and I’ve had it all my life and never knew it.

As my physicians, both graduates of the Triple A College of Surgery & Tuckpointing in Gary, Indiana, explained it, I have a sticky heart valve. That means that when the heart squeezes blood out of the chamber, the valve doesn’t close properly, allowing blood to leak back into the chamber. As a result, there’s not enough blood circulating through my system. The heart has to work harder, and, like most muscles, the harder it works the bigger it gets.

So, my heart is now slightly enlarged. Unless the condition is remedied it will continue to get larger until it’s as swollen as an Irishman’s liver on the morning after St. Patrick’s Day. Then, I don’t know, I suppose it’ll probably explode, leaving me in a rather delicate situation.

Here’s a bit of the discussion I had with my physicians, Drs. Loeb and Leopold:

“So, what are my options?”

“Actually, you’ve got some options.”

“What are they?”

“The first option is surgery. We can fix the valve and you can live a normal life. In fact, you’ll feel better than you have in years.”

“What’s the second option?”

“You heart will start failing in a couple of years and you’ll die.”

“What’s the third option?”

“There is no third option.”

“Darn.”

To be honest, I haven’t felt that well in the last couple of years. I’ve always prided myself on being a fairly strong person, but in the last few years I’ve felt a sense of weakness that I attributed to the aging process. I had no idea that the feeling of weakness was due to a heart condition.

Out of curiosity, I asked the doctors if lifestyle had anything to do with my condition. They said that my lifestyle was definitely to blame. Although Arterial Stenosis is a congenital condition, heavy drinking and smoking certainly aggravated the situation.

So, there you have it. I stayed at the table too long, ordering everything on the menu. Now, the waiter has presented the check and I’m going through my pockets to see if I have enough to cover the tab.

Surgery is scheduled for October 6th. I’ll let you know how it goes.

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Letter From Milo: The Operation

March 4th, 2019

There are wonderful things you can hear from your doctor. For me, the ideal would be, “Milo, sir, you are a magnificent physical specimen. You can continue smoking, drinking, eating red meat, gambling, scandalizing the neighbors and fornicating for another 50 years.”

On the other hand, the last words you want to hear from your doctor are “cancer” or “heart disease.” Unfortunately, I heard those dreaded words from my doctor a few weeks ago.

No, it isn’t cancer. It’s heart disease.

Technically, it’s not heart disease, it’s a heart condition. It’s called Arterial Stenosis (you can look it up) and I’ve had it all my life and never knew it.

As my physicians, both graduates of the Triple A College of Surgery & Tuckpointing in Gary, Indiana, explained it, I have a sticky heart valve. That means that when the heart squeezes blood out of the chamber, the valve doesn’t close properly, allowing blood to leak back into the chamber. As a result, there’s not enough blood circulating through my system. The heart has to work harder, and, like most muscles, the harder it works the bigger it gets.

So, my heart is now slightly enlarged. Unless the condition is remedied it will continue to get larger until it’s as swollen as an Irishman’s liver on the morning after St. Patrick’s Day. Then, I don’t know, I suppose it’ll probably explode, leaving me in a rather delicate situation.

Here’s a bit of the discussion I had with my physicians, Drs. Loeb and Leopold:

“So, what are my options?”

“Actually, you’ve got some options.”

“What are they?”

“The first option is surgery. We can fix the valve and you can live a normal life. In fact, you’ll feel better than you have in years.”

“What’s the second option?”

“You heart will start failing in a couple of years and you’ll die.”

“What’s the third option?”

“There is no third option.”

“Darn.”

To be honest, I haven’t felt that well in the last couple of years. I’ve always prided myself on being a fairly strong person, but in the last few years I’ve felt a sense of weakness that I attributed to the aging process. I had no idea that the feeling of weakness was due to a heart condition.

Out of curiosity, I asked the doctors if lifestyle had anything to do with my condition. They said that my lifestyle was definitely to blame. Although Arterial Stenosis is a congenital condition, heavy drinking and smoking certainly aggravated the situation.

So, there you have it. I stayed at the table too long, ordering everything on the menu. Now, the waiter has presented the check and I’m going through my pockets to see if I have enough to cover the tab.

Surgery is scheduled for October 6th. I’ll let you know how it goes.

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