The Fallen Window Washer

Last week, there was a tragic accident in Chicago. A window-washer fell from the sixty-third floor of a high rise to his death. He had only been in this country less than a month. He didn't speak any English. He probably came here from Mexico to make a better life for himself. Not much was known about this man except that he was a hard worker.


Tragically, there was not much left of the man as the fall had splattered his body across the pavement. The police had a very hard time identifying the poor man as he had no identification papers, nothing. His two co-workers, Stan and Peter, who had come from Poland, were of not much help either in helping to identify the poor guy..


The police interviewed Stan and Peter. They asked, "Did he have any tattoos?"


Stan: "No, not that we could see."


Policeman 1: "Did he have any distinguishing marks? Scars, birth marks, anything like that?"


Peter: "No, I don't think so."


Policeman: 2: "Was there anything out of the ordinary about the man? For example, did he have only one eye. . . perhaps, he was a missing a finger. Is there anything?"


"Wait a minute," Stan said. "There was something. . . He had two assholes."


"Yeah, that's right," Peter added. "He had two assholes."


Policeman 1: "What do you mean he had two assholes?"


Stan: "Well, everyday after finishing it up, we'd go across the street to the tavern for a few beers and everybody in there would say, 'Here comes that Mexican with the two assholes.'"

Disclaimer: This is humor and in no way, shape or form am I a xenophoboic nor biased against any race, creed or nationality. My only bias is ignorance. Thank you and have a great day

Why is Everybody Breaking Up?

What the hell's going on? Although I give advice to those from every walk and run of life, I either missed a whole lot of folks or they decided not to heed my counsel. And this worries me.

 The divorce courts are going to be getting a lot of business in the near future, I'll tell you that much. Lately, I'd been hearing about a lot of breakups -  and it's really bothering me if you really want to know the truth. I'm a caring guy and to learn that all these people are breaking up with their loved ones is causing me to do headstands on a bed of nails.  Especially when it's probably over matters that could've been easily resolved. Where's the dignity? Where's the dedication? Whatever happened to "Till death do us part!"

Yesterday I was at the mall when I walked by a little old lady, who was talking to her husband on her cell phone.

She was saying, "Honey, I am going to buy that new mini skirt that I was telling you about."

A few seconds later, she started to talk louder and then she began to scream.

"We're breaking up. Did you hear me? We're breaking up!"

Jesus, I thought, just because the husband didn't like the idea of his wife wearing a mini skirt should be no reason for her to break up with him. They'd probably been married a good 49 years too.

Later, I was at the grocery store when I passed this guy talking to his wife on his cell phone.

"Honey, what do you want to have for dinner tonight? . . . . Liver? No way, not again. . . .  We're breaking up! . . .  Did you hear me? We're breaking up . . .

Jesus, divorce over liver, gimme a frickin' break!

And then I'm on my way home, when at a stoplight, this guy next to me who is a priest, is yelling in his cell phone:

"Did you hear me, Mother Superior? Did you hear me . . . We're breaking up!"

Jesus, nothing is sacred anymore.

Oh wait, there's a news bulletin: "The last few days, there's been UFOs circling the earth, causing interference between satellites and  electronic devices throughout the world."

Well, that's nice but still, I think that the increase in the break-ups between the earth's inhabitants is more worthy of a breaking news report than UFOs circling the earth.  I just hope that news reporter person is not thinking about breaking up with her husband.

By Rick J. Fico aka Dan (The Man) Landers

Singled Out

I walked into a bar the other day and say,  "Excuse me, I'd like a pint of beer, well, make it a root beer... I forgot, I just had a root canal. "

The bartender serves the root beer and says,  "That'll be four dollars." I pull out a twenty-dollar bill and hand it to the bartender.

"Sorry, sir," the bartender says, "but I can't accept that."

I pull out a ten-dollar bill and the bartender rejects my money again. "What's going on here?" I ask.

Pointing to a neon sign, the bartender explains, "This is a Singles Bar."

Seeing that I didn't have any singles, on my way out  I picked up one of the busty brunettes who was ogling me the entire time and we headed over to "Anita Nichol's" on the corner, in which  I gave its owner a nickel  every time I asked her name.

Ah, sometimes I wish were a banker instead of this "Walden Ponded" world-renowned advice guru who often forgets to put on his pants before heading out.

Thanks for listening,

R.J. Fico

Sponsored by Away2LasVegas.com 

Corporal Pun-ishment!

As I was sitting there under that old Weeping Willow next to the pond, with nothing else to do but contemplate the heavens above, along with my intermittent perusal of the morning daily, delivered to me earlier by a cheery-eyed newspaper boy on a hopped-up moped, I had the chance to share a few chuckles with the occasional squirrel and mallard duck that crossed my path.

Amongst the harder news were these reports:

"A hole has been found in the nudist camp wall. The police are looking into it."

"A small boy swallowed some coins and was taken to a hospital. When his grandmother telephoned to ask how he was doing a nurse said 'No change yet' "

"There was a sign on the lawn at a drug rehab center that said 'Keep off the Grass'."

"The butcher backed up into the meat grinder and got a little behind in his work."

"A dog gave birth to puppies near the road and was ticketed for littering."

"A midget fortune-teller escaped from prison yesterday. Beware, there's a small medium at large."

"The man who fell into an upholstery machine yesterday is fully recovered."

"The man who survived mustard gas and pepper spray is now a seasoned veteran."

"A thief who stole from the Chicago blood bank was caught red-handed."

"A thief who stole a calendar from the Michigan Avenue Walgreen's got twelve months."

The Piddling Rooster!

Taken from memoirs - Just Another Ordinary Day!!!

Could you believe it? It rained here last night. Ah, how beautiful it was. A fine light show followed by thunderous applause, I slept like a baby the whole time. Damn, I'd been waiting for a night like this since Columbus first left Genoa (Oops, that was a different life). I knew I should have pitched a tent out back and waited for the rains but I assumed the weather man (an avowed practical joker on his off time) was just kidding when he was standing there before that big map of his and predicting to the camera, "Late tonight, I'm expecting a heavy downpour with lots of lightning and thunder and strong winds. We hadn't anything like that since, heck, I can't even remember when."


I awoke this morning, and sure as the meteorologist's newly polished crystal ball, the evidence was everywhere. Outside my door, newly formed wading pools and drinking troughs for the quail and doves and a kaleidoscopic array of color upon the pavement, I knew I'd missed the show. I took a walk down the street, admiring the sun-enhanced, rain-induced crystallization on every brush, every bush and every flowering bud. The corner house --freshly painted and smelling of spring -- brought out through its front door the old man with the rooster upon his head. I guess that's why you call those dang birds...roosters.


"Did you see all the lightning this morning, sonny?" he asks, his pet rooster pecking away on his thick brow. "And the thunder, hell, I thought I was back in Normandy. You know, sonny, the Second World War. Well, did you see it? Did ya hear it? Did ya, did ya, did ya, did ya . . . well, did ya, Sonny?"


"No, I didn't. I slept like a rock. Perhaps it was the Rock of Gibraltar," I say. He takes the rooster off his head and puts it upon his arm.


"A fine perch for my Ginger," he attests, his forced smile revealing a dentist's worst nightmare. "I'm sorry, sonny, but my memory ain't as good as it used to be, ya know, but have you met my Ginger before?"


My memory's probably not as good as used to be either but I don't believe I had been formally introduced to this bird before. Just saw him atop the old man's head in passing a few times and, oh yeah, heard him a few mornings, filling in for the neighborhood alarm clock. I extend my hand. The man extends his. Ginger bridges the gap and steps onto my arm. A chill runs down my spine, never before this day had I a rooster upon my arm.


"Whatcha think, Sonny?"


What do I think? Hmm, I think I have a rooster upon my arm. I think it's about to . . . eh, I was right. "Well," I say, "you have a fine bird but it just piddled on my arm."


"Just like the rain this morning that piddled on my cacti," the old man replies, laughing. "Well, sonny, I'll take Ginger off your hands if ya don't mind. I gotta go in the back and fix the sump pump."


I hand him back his Ginger. Immediately the bird crawls up his arm, hops on his shoulder and pecks at the old man's ear. "Now, now Ginger," the old man says, "you mustn't talk bad about our neighbors. I, too, think that young dude probably ain't up to no good - walking ‘round this neighborhood with his backward Chicago Bulls cap and his peace-sign tee-shirt and fake-gold wristwatch and his yellow legal pad and purple pencil. . .

A Special Kind of Valentine

Note: As a world-renowned advisor to countless individuals including celebrities, sports figures and those from all walks of life, I feel the need at times, to step back and take a look at my own life, often times going back to my childhood, where the foundation of what I was to become had been established. My childhood wasn't exactly an easy one if you really want to know the truth. 

With Valentines Day here once again, I am now compelled to return to another time, another place:

As a young boy with youthful yearnings and miniscule earnings derived from my lop-sided paper route, I decided it was time I do something really nice for Momma for Valentines Day and maybe, just maybe, she'd forget her troubles for a while, put down her drink and look at her children with clear, tear-less eyes, something she hadn't done since right before Thanksgiving of my tenth year, when Dad phoned his mistress and said, "I'm leaving my wife and four kids, I'll be with you for the rest of eternity." Of course, it was hush-hush, but I had my hush puppies on and besides I knew something wasn't right when Dad packed a suitcase while Momma basted the turkey.

Not really knowing what to buy with all of my six dollars, which really was a lot of money those days if you weren't a gambler or a drinker or a pot head or god forbid, were intent on frequenting Madame Bouvier's pink-colored Brothel on the other side of the tracks, where some people, well, a lot of people there could no longer draw the line, lost their pencils along with their sanity or something like that, wasn't sure, I was only in my second year of Social Studies, one of my favorites was Science and Nuclear Engineering, a branch of physics where, incidentally, I built my tree house. Right next to me an eagle's aerie and a sparrows nest and I thought, if these birds of a different feather could flock together and be peaceful with each other, why couldn't the rest of the world.  We had Viet Nam and the cold war and a build-up of arms and Arnold was the most famous for that one . . .

I shopped along Maxwell Street with the scotch-taped drunkards and with their boisterous mouths still open, I heard enough about hardship and "woe is me's" than a newly graduated Psychology Major filling in as an intern at Jerry Springer's Clearing House.

I pushed my cart with zeal and a seal of approval from the pearly white-toothed, bandana-headed clerk, who, by the way, resembled a young Jane Fonda. Exhausted and still unsure, I grabbed from the rack the big box with various sized pots and pans, hopefully a prelude to home-cooked dinners with Momma and hoping that her days and nights hanging about the saloons would be over . . . couldn't she see that I loved her and missed her, that my last three years were without her and Papa . . . that my world, our world had turned upside down.

I wish one and all a very special Valentines Day and remember to be kind, be giving and above all, espouse your love and gratitude to those around you.

Sincerely, Rick J. Fico aka Dan (The Man) Landers

Oh, and maybe you are ready to take that special one on a honeymoon or a pre-honeymoon, Well, Las Vegas is a great destination for a romantic interlude. It has the Eiffel Tower, it has St. Mark's Square. It has more than you probably ever imagined.

Sure, I'm Self-Centered!

Some people think I am a real jerk just because I'm a genius and extremely handsome with huge muscles and a dark tan. They think I'm a conceited jerk but I'm far from conceited. I'm one of the most modest persons you would ever meet if you ever get the good fortune to meet me. If you ever were so lucky to meet me, you'd be surprised to see how down to earth I really am. After you bow and kiss my feet, you'd see that I'm no different than you. Although everybody is wanting of my attention, I'd be sure to give you my full attention as I sign my autograph for you so that you'd have something to frame when you get back home. . .

Okay, now that I cleared up that unfortunate misunderstanding, let me tell you a little about myself - here I go: "I am Great!"  I really mean it! I am great at a lot of things - like giving huge tips to hard-working waiters and waitresses; I'm great at opening doors for people, especially the elderly; I'm great at helping others when I see that they are over-burdened; I'm great at helping others understand that life could be so wonderful and not as dismal as one may think -that is part of the reason why I became a world-renowned advice guru. To offer my services to those who could use a little boost.

I'm great at being myself, oh yes I am . . . And if you still think I'm an A-hole be sure you don't leave a tip on any of my tables - especially the one with your last supper. Or perhaps your first dessert.

R.J. Fico aka Dan (The Man) Landers