Letter From Milo: Mr. Fabulous

February 19th, 2019

Every man wishes he had a bigger dick. No man is satisfied with the load he carries. Every man would like his log to be longer, thicker and more imposing. Even the late, great Johnny Wadd, the gold standard of big dicks, probably wished he had an extra inch or two, just to be on the safe side.

Now, a few of you might say, Milo, how can you say that ALL men want bigger dicks? That’s a pretty broad generalization.

Okay, I’ll give you that much. Maybe not every man is obsessed with the size of his dick. Perhaps there’s a religious hermit living in a cave in the Alps who never gives his dick a second thought. There could be a junkie somewhere who’s so degraded by heroin that the only time he considers his dick is when he wonders how much he can get for it on the black market. There may even be a Talmudic scholar somewhere who considers his dick a nuisance, because every time he gets up to piss it takes precious time away from his studies.

Here’s a simple test that will prove my point. Go up to a man, any man, a friend, relative or stranger in a bar, and ask him this question:

Dude, how would you like to have a smaller dick?

If you don’t get beaten up, stabbed or shot, I guarantee you won’t find a single person who’ll say, Now that you mention it, I think I would like to have a smaller dick.

Recently, I had a few drinks and smoked a joint with my good friend, Professor Wang, who’s head of the Anthropology Department (Online Division) at the Triple A College of Nutrition and Cosmetology in Gary, Indiana. He explained to me that men have been concerned about dick size ever since the first half-monkey crawled out of the mire and discovered that standing on two legs was a pretty good idea.

According to Professor Wang, the earliest cave art ever found, in a cavern near the Quad Cities, was a crude painting of a group of naked Neanderthals comparing their dick sizes. Coincidentally, right next to that drawing is another one of a group of Neanderthal women laughing their asses off.

For as long as man has been aware of his, ah, shortcomings, he has taken steps to remedy the situation. Mankind’s very first invention, predating the discovery of fire by more than a million years, was a primitive dick extension contraption. It was made of mammoth hide, pine cones, pieces of flint and a rabbit’s foot. There is no record of its effectiveness.

Throughout history great minds have spent countless years and untold millions of dollars trying to come up with a mechanical solution to man’s most vexing problem. Aristotle, Pythagoras, Leonardo Da Vinci and Thomas Edison all tried to come up with a male enhancement device — and all failed miserably. Rumor has it that Bill Gates squandered half of his Microsoft fortune in a fruitless search for the Holy Grail of manhood.

In all of recorded history there is only one penis enlargement device that has proven successful. In fact, it works spectacularly well. It was invented a Swede named Sven Loewhangen and he called it, “The Fabulous Swedish Dick Extender.”

Due to Mr. Leowhangen’s untimely passing, something about ingesting some spoiled lutefisk, fewer than a dozen of his marvelous inventions were ever manufactured. And they are now nearly impossible to find.

I, however, was determined to find one. Not that I need one, you understand. As far as males attributes go, I’ve been truly blessed. No, my interest in The Fabulous Swedish Dick Extender was purely academic. One day I may even submit a paper on the subject to Reader’s Digest.

After years of the most arduous research, I finally tracked down the legendary contraptions. Most of them were in the hands of the Saudi royal family, who refused to part with them under any circumstances. Another belonged to a Chinese soy sauce tycoon who refused to admit he owned it. Yet another one belonged to the estate of the late sportsman, Porfirio Rubirosa, but his heirs claim to have misplaced it.

Just when I had given up hope of ever finding one of the elusive machines, I got extremely lucky. I made the acquaintance of a woman named Ruth Madoff, whose husband, Bernie, seemed to be experiencing some financial problems. She agreed to sell me her husband’s The Fabulous Swedish Dick Extender, but the price was steep.

To raise the money I had to take out second and third mortgages on my home, sell my sure-fire horse betting system to Bruce Diksas for a pretty penny, and transfer my interest in The Third City blog site to the Tribune Company.

Well, I sent the check off to Mrs. Madoff and now I’m waiting for the FedEx man to arrive. I’ll let you know if my search for The Fabulous Swedish Dick Extender was worth all of the aggravation and expense. I sure hope it was.

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Letter From Milo: Sweet Dreams!

February 10th, 2019

I’ve always considered myself fortunate in that, unlike many veterans, I don’t think I’ve had very many lasting effects from my tour of duty in Vietnam. There are a few health issues relating from my exposure to Agent Orange and I’m still leery of crowds and averse to loud noises. But, on the whole, I think I’ve escaped relatively unscathed from that wretched experience.

Some vets weren’t so lucky. The hard luck stories of Vietnam veterans have almost passed into the realm of urban myth. I don’t know the truth of the matter, but ‘Nam vets allegedly had higher murder, suicide and incarceration rates than the general public. They were more likely to die from auto accidents, drug overdoses, domestic disputes, alcohol related accidents and broken hearts than the average Joe or Josephine.

If there was any credence to the stories, the streets of America were littered with the bodies of Vietnam veterans.

The physical toll on veterans was bad enough, but even worse, in my opinion, was the mental damage. To hear tell, our nations mental hospitals were crammed with crazed, drooling, haunted, deranged ‘Nam vets, all stuffed to the gills with every medication known to man. The ones that weren’t institutionalized were living in caves in Idaho, wandering the streets with all of their possessions in shopping carts, or begging for spare change at busy intersections.

As I mentioned earlier, I consider myself extremely fortunate that I wasn’t permanently physically or mentally damaged in that war. I wasn’t shot or blown up, bitten by a step-and-half snake (if bitten, you can take about a step and a half before dying) or hurt in any of the dozens of ways it was possible to be maimed. Contrary to many opinions, my mental capabilities seem to have survived without major damage, too. In short, I don’t exhibit any of the after-effects that plague so many veterans.

Except one.

You see, every few months I have this horrifying dream about Vietnam. It’s not a violent dream. It’s not about combat or violence of any sort. The dreams works on a deeper level, but it still terrifies me.

In this dream I get drafted again. I’m not the 19-year-old kid I was when I first got drafted in 1968. I am what I am, an aging man, balding, burned-out, gaseous, funky and dealing with health issues. There is no way on earth I should be draft material. Plus, I had been drafted into the Army 40 years earlier. How could I possibly be drafted again? It’s like double jeopardy. But, hey, this is a dream. It’s not supposed to make sense.

Anyway, in this dream I’m standing on a street among a large group of young men, moving slowly toward a line of yellow school buses. We are being herded onto the buses by a bunch of tough looking drill sergeants, all wearing Smokey the Bear hats and mirrored sunglasses and smacking riding crops into the palms of their hands.

“Keep it moving,” they bark at us, “Come on, shitheads, we haven’t got all day. Keep it moving.”

Now, the last thing I want to do is get on one of those buses. I know that if I get on a bus I am totally and completely fucked, as doomed as a man can be. The next stop would be Vietnam or some place exactly like it. I also know that this time I won’t get out alive.

I decide to reason woth the drill sergeants. I’ve got paperwork with me, discharge papers, birth certificate, etc.

“Look here, fellas,” I say, trying to get them to look at my papers. “There’s been some sort of mistake. I’ve already been drafted once, 40 years ago. Plus, I’m too old for this shit. This can’t be right. It’s probably illegal to draft somebody twice. I mean, there’s got to be an age limit…”

Nothing I say makes a bit of difference. The drill sergeants have a job to do and that’s to fill up the buses with cannon fodder. They’ve got their orders.

“Keep it moving. Let’s go. Single file. There’s a war going on and we don’t want you boys to miss it. Keep it moving.”

As I get closer to the buses I begin to panic. I know that once I get on a bus I won’t get off again until I’m in a war zone. I think about running, but I look around and see that there are soldiers everywhere, all carrying automatic weapons, just waiting to shoot anybody who tries to run away. There’s nothing I can do. I am truly screwed.

Soon there is just one other poor bastard between me and the door of a bus. I start to hyperventilate. I’m close to tears. I’m falling apart. There’s no hope for me. It’s all over. There’s no doubt in my mind that I am facing certain doom. The Fat Lady is practicing her scales.

Just as I get ready to step onto the bus I wake up.

At first I don’t know where I am. I’m drenched in sweat, gasping for breath. Then, I realize where I am and begin to calm down. I’m in my bed, in my little bungalow on the north side of Chicago. My wife is sleeping peacefully next to me. My children are asleep in their rooms, blissfully unaware of their old man’s nightmare. The dog is sleeping at the foot of the bed. I don’t know and don’t care about the cat’s whereabouts.

And there is not a bus in sight.

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Letter From Milo: Dry Well

January 29th, 2019

Sometimes a person just runs out of ideas. It can’t be helped. The creative muse is a fickle, completely unreliable slut. On occasion, the most creative people can come up dry. I imagine that the immortal Thomas Edison had days when the light bulb in his head didn’t click on.

Columnists are particularly susceptible to dry spells. There’s something about a deadline and a blank page (blank computer screen, actually) that can rattle the most prolific of writers. Smart columnists, and there are a handful of them, have figured out a cheesy way to deal with dry spells. When they can’t come up with a piece they simply post letters from their readers, add snappy replies, and call it a column. Even the great Mike Royko resorted to this ploy on occasion.

Well, it’s happened to me. I’ve hit a dry spell and can’t think of a thing to write. So, I’ve decided to fall back on the “letters from readers” gimmick. Here then, are a few letters from my faithful and adoring readers, followed by my snappy replies.

Letter #1

Motherfucker, where’s my money!

Snappy reply:

You’ll have to be more specific. Are you talking about a gambling debt, loan, bail-bond forfeiture or other fiduciary matter? Shit, wait a minute. Are you Bobby from Baltimore? How’d you find me anyway? I bet you Googled me and traced me back to this blog site. Damn it, I should never have let Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this crummy outfit, talk me into writing for this site. So far, it’s been nothing but a huge pain in the ass.

Letter # 2

Dude, I think there’s something wrong with that weed you sold me. I smoked three fat joints and all I got was a headache. Dylan, my roommate at DePaul, says you sold me a bag of oregano. I can’t believe you ripped me off. You seemed like such a nice guy when I met you at the Jimmy Buffet concert at Wrigley Field.

Snappy reply:

That’s what you get, dumb ass, when you buy weed from strangers. You’re a college kid, right? So how come you don’t have a decent weed connection. Show some initiative. When I was your age I had a half dozen solid connections. Matter of fact, I had a good pot dealer when I was 11 years old. He’d take my check, too. I don’t know what to think about this younger generation. It’s simple-minded young fuckers like you who make me worry about the future of this great country.

Letter # 3

This is the final letter you’re getting from me before I take you to court. Your last five child support checks bounced. School’s starting soon and and your little children need new clothes and school supplies. Plus, you haven’t visited your children in nearly five years. You’re a sorry excuse for a father. If I had my way I’d stick you in jail with all the other deadbeat dads. I mean it. You are disgusting.

Snappy reply:

Heh, heh, sorry about that. There must have been some sort of computer error at my bank. I’ll rectify the situation as soon as possible. But, first, could you clarify something for me? Are you Monica, Louise, Denise, Angie or Juanita?

Letter # 4

As a grandmother and concerned citizen, I find your writing extremely offensive. Why can’t you be more like those nice boys, Big Mike and Benny Jay? Those fellows are real writers. They write nice things about their families, and current events and sports, things that people really care about. And they don’t use the vile language that you seem so fond of. It seems to me that all you write about is sex, drugs, liquor, violence and more sex. I’m close to 90 years old and in poor health. The last thing I need is to be upset by the filthy writing of an obvious pervert.

By the way, is the Third City planning on having some articles about knitting and needlework in the near future?

Snappy reply:

I’m truly sorry to hear that you’re in poor health. I may be able to help you in that regard. I know a fine doctor up in Michigan who’s been known to work wonders with ailing senior citizens. His name is Dr. Kevorkian. He’ll even pick you up in his air-conditioned, fully equipped van and take you for a nice ride in the country. Please, there’s no need to thank me. As for your last question, I believe Big Mike is researching a column about making doilies and Benny Jay is soon going to be posting his fabulous recipe for oatmeal cookies. Have a nice day.

Letter # 5

Hey, you low-life cocksucker, where’s my money!

Snappy reply:

Please refer to Snappy Reply #1.

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Letter From Milo: Making Money

January 21st, 2019

There are a lot of ways to make money in this world, but blogging is not one of them. In fact, writing a blog may be the only guaranteed way NOT to make money. The problem is that anyone can have a blog site. All you need is a computer with an Internet connection, which includes just about everybody in the First World. Talent or a point of view are not requirements.

Don’t get me wrong. I went into this blog thing with my eyes wide open. I knew there was no money in it. The way those two low-lifes, Big Mike and Benny Jay, explained it to me, The Third City blog would would be a way for the three of us to hone our craft and work on our writing chops, like musicians practicing scales. We could write anything we wanted. There would be no censorship. We would answer to nobody but our consciences, and I, for one, don’t have much of a conscience.

In essence, we would be entertaining ourselves.

(Milo) “Hey Benny, excellent bit about the track meet.”

(Big Mike) “Milo, your piece on Marriage Counseling was funny, man.”

(Benny) “Big Mike, great job on your bit about the flag.”

(Milo) “Mike, the story about Neda, the Iranian girl who was shot, should be featured in every newspaper in the country.”

(Big Mike) “Loved your last one, Benny.”

(Benny) “Milo, what did your wife say when she read Pussy Magnet?”

With so many blog sites out there, we figured there was little chance we would attract attention. It is a crowded field and getting more crowded all the time. We were resigned to laboring in well-deserved obscurity, our writing destined to be read by just family and a few friends.

Then, a funny thing happened. We began attracting an audience. When Big Mike and Benny Jay, computer geniuses that the are, finally figured out how to count the hits on the site, we realized that we were getting in the neighborhood of a thousand readers a week. As far as I was concerned, that was an astonishing number. Where were these people coming from? Who were they? And why were they interested in the ravings of three nutcases like Big Mike, Benny Jay and me?

The next question that occurred to me was: How can we make some money now that we’re attracting readers. Trying to screw my readers out of money was out of the question. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to, it’s just that many of them know me too well to fall for one of my scams, although I wouldn’t mind beating Bruce Diksas out of a few bucks. That’s always fun.

The answer, of course, was advertising. After all, that’s how the big boys, Google, Yahoo, and the porn industry, make money on the Internet.

So, now we’ve put up our first ads on The Third City site. Granted, we haven’t attracted IBM, Miller Lite or Chevrolet, although Big Mike is currently involved in some delicate negotiations with the three of them. From what I understand, we’re coming close to a deal. There’s just one snag to overcome. And that snag seems to be that IBM, Miller Lite and Chevrolet want absolutely nothing to do with us. But I’m sure that Big Mike, shrewd operator that he is, will eventually forge some sort of deal, and, on very advantageous terms.

In the meantime, we currently have two advertisers, my wife, the wonderful Mrs. Milo, who is hyping her real estate business, and a local video store. The problem is that both are getting free advertising. Mrs. Milo gets hers free just to keep peace in my household. And, from what I understand, Benny Jay offered the video store free advertising in exchange for unlimited access to the latest Swedish porn.

Hell, you’ve got to start somewhere. Our beginnings may be modest but, mark my words, in a couple of months we’ll be rolling in the dough. We’ll be standing in tall cotton, eating high on the hog, double parked on Easy Street. From here on in, it’s going to be Fat City, baby.

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Letter From Milo: Last Call

May 28th, 2018

I’m done. I’m resigning my position as Lifestyle, Celebrity and Religion columnist for The Third City. To paraphrase the great Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce tribe: From where the sun now stands, I will blog no more forever.

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Letter From Milo: Otis Rides the Wild Surf

May 21st, 2018

I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I’ve got a lot of shit on my mind. The IRS has been hounding me. The lovely Mrs. Milo wants to drag me off to marriage counseling again. My sister has cut off my line of credit. And my mother hasn’t taken any of my phone calls since she got Caller I.D.

But these are problems I can live with. The main reason I’m pacing the floor at three in the morning instead of sleeping is due entirely to the presence in my home of a mangy, rotten bastard of an alley cat named Otis.

Ever since Otis followed my youngest daughter home and weaseled his way into our household, about 15 years ago, my life has been a living hell. I would have gotten rid of him long ago but my wife and kids told me there’d be hell to pay if anything happened to the cat.

I haven’t got the time or space to write down all of Otis’ despicable character traits. But the thing that bothers me the most is that Otis has alienated my family’s affections. It’s become obvious that my wife and daughters care more for the cat than they do for me. When my eldest daughter, who lives a few miles away, comes to visit, she barely acknowledges my presence. Instead, she rushes straight for the cat, picks him up, cuddles with him and showers the bastard with baby talk.

“What cutesy little kitty you are. How’s my favorite little guy in the whole world? Ooh, I miss you so much.”

And when my wife comes home, the first thing she asks is if the cat had been fed. Apparently, my nutritional needs don’t matter. It is plain to me that I have become a second class citizen in my own home.

This past summer, I was sitting on the rocks at Foster Avenue Beach, sipping from a half pint of Old Crow and feeling sorry for myself, when I noticed that a film crew was working nearby. I recognized one of the crewmembers, a guy named Kevin, from my days in the advertising business, so I went over to talk to him. After a bit of small talk, he said that they were going to shut down the set.


“We ran out of cats,” Kevin said, then explained that they were shooting a commercial for a Canadian pet food company and the scene required a cat on a surfboard. “The cat’s supposed to catch a wave, ride it all the way to shore, then hop off the surfboard, and walk up to a bowl of tasty looking cat food.”

“So, how did you run out of cats?”

“Well, we started with eight cats and as soon as we put one of them on the surfboard the fucker fell off and drowned.”

“Jesus, are you saying that all eight of the cats drowned?”

“Yeah, now we’ve got to shut down the set and do it all over again tomorrow, when we get some more cats. This was supposed to be a one day shoot. I’m going to catch hell for blowing the budget.”

“Wait a minute! I may be able to help you. I’ve got a cat that’s an expert surfer.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I picked him up in Malibu a couple of years ago. The cat was raised on the beach. He’s forgotten more about surfing than most people will ever know.”

“Oh, man, that’s great. I can pay you a couple of hundred bucks. How soon can you get him here?”

“I’ll be back in half an hour.”

I rushed home, grabbed Otis, stuffed him in a cat carrier, and headed for the door. When I got back to the beach, Kevin said, “Alright, let shoot this thing while the light’s still good.”

A short while later, Otis was perched on a thin sheet of wood, about 150 yards from shore, and bobbing up and down with the roll of the waves. It was a windy day and the water was rough. I expected Otis to immediately lose his footing and tumble into the water like the other cats did. But to my surprise, and bitter disappointment, he kept his feet. In fact he seemed eerily calm, almost confident.

When the big wave came along and lifted Otis to the crest, I expected he’d be done for. Instead, Otis pulled an aerial on take-off, and then did a fins-free snap and a cutback. He rode the tube for a few moments, followed by a roll off the top, before coasting into a floater. When the wave weakened, Otis did a bottom turn, before hitting the lip to return to the top of the wave. As he got close to shore, the cat put a paw in the water to slow the ride and stay in the tube.

Otis stayed on the surfboard until it beached itself on the sand. Then he hopped off and headed for the bowl of cat food. Maybe I was imagining things, but it seemed like he was strutting as he walked toward the food.

“Milo, that was spectacular,” Kevin said, shaking his head in awe. “The cat’s a natural. Do you think he’ll be available next week? I’m shooting another commercial that calls for a cat to be caught in a cattle stampede.”

“Yeah, Otis will be there. But I’m sure he’ll want more money.”

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Letter From Milo: Married Men

May 14th, 2018

Marriage is wonderful, but it’s not for everyone. Some people (and I’m referring to males of the species) are incapable of withstanding the rigors of marriage.

There are men who are so set in their doggish ways, so unwilling to compromise even the slightest bit of their independence, or answer to anyone for their behavior, that matrimony is simply not an option for them. They live by their own rules and schedules, and answer only to their own consciences.

I have a dear friend, who I’ll call Bruce Diksas, to spare him undue embarrassment, who has never married and doesn’t plan to get married anytime soon. He lives on his own terms, enjoying a rigorous lifestyle that most wives wouldn’t tolerate. I once asked Bruce if he had ever considered getting married.

“I almost asked Martha to marry me.”

“I remember her. You two were together for a couple of years. What happened?”

“It was just one of those things. I was getting ready to have my usual breakfast. I rolled a joint, popped a beer and got the pizza out of the fridge, when Martha said, ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t care for some granola and skim milk?’”


“I couldn’t believe she said that to me.”

“Swear to God, just when you think you know somebody…”

While there are lots of men who have never gone to the trouble of getting married, there are many others who are plainly unsuitable for matrimony, yet they keep getting married, over and over again. They are as unfit for marriage as any boozing, drug-abusing, whore mongering career bachelor, but that doesn’t stop them from marching down the aisle whenever they can convince some foolish woman to join them in wedded bliss.

I asked a friend, an old hell raiser named Rodney, who had been married four or five times, why he didn’t just give up on marriage and live in sin, or make some other satisfactory arrangements. Why, I wondered, did he insist on being married when he was obviously so bad at it.

“I’m Catholic. I was schooled by nuns. I’ve got a lot of guilt in me. I don’t want to add to my bad karma by living in sin.”

“That’s a bullshit excuse. Catholics aren’t supposed to get divorced, either.”

“Heh, heh, I’ve given that a lot of thought. There’s a very fine line there. You see, technically, I never divorced any of my wives. They divorced me. So, I figure that gives me some wiggle room.”

Ah, well, I guess people get married for all sorts of reasons. They marry for love and for money. Some marry because they want to and others marry because they have to. Some marriages are arranged and some are deranged. Some unions last forever and some are doomed from the start. I suppose the great thing about being married is that if things don’t work out, you can always try again.

There are not many situations in life where people get second or even third chances. The institution of marriage, however, comes with a lifetime supply of mulligans.

I was having a few drinks and discussing the subject the other day with a guy named Phil, who is a commodities trader and a ladies’ man with a string of ex-wives in his wake.

“So, why did you marry your first wife?” I asked.

“She had great tits.”

“What about the second wife?”

“She had a fantastic ass.”

“And the third wife?”

“Double jointed.”

I suppose that’s as good a reason as any to get married.

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