Hobo Frankenstein

When my stomach acid starts up, I know my neck will start to get tense, as well as my lower back. A careful assessment of my state of mind determined that I had to blow off some steam, de-stress, unwind, whatever. So, I decided to go to a few places that I haven't been for a while.

First stop: That scary military surplus compound/store out in the sticks. I don't know why I find this place interesting, but I do. Sticking out like a sore thumb and not giving a shit about it can be satisfying and funny. It was there that I found a good source for rip-stop army fatigues (non-cammo) and waffle stompers. One time I even bought a bag of radio knobs. I thought they looked cool and was going to toughen up the look of my system with them, but they turned out to be huge. It didn't work out, so if any of you need a bunch of battlefield radio knobs, I'm your man.

Back to the story, there's a section where all the hillbillies and whatnot's can get their IFA on. I generally steer clear of that section and go straight to the scary part: The outside surplus storage area. There's so much dangerous and useless crap it's mind boggling. I'm holding out hope for a chance to find a JATO or two--you know, those rockets they use to help the big cargo planes take off on short runways. I had plans to re-enact an urban legend about strapping those to a car, but the program "Mythbusters" beat me to it. There wasn't much to look at today, however. They had fenced off the good stuff. So, I went inside the warehouse.

Inside I found a large bin of, you guessed it, chest spreaders! I knew there was a reason for going there. I was planning on boning up on my open-heart surgery this weekend. Down a bit further, I found a section featuring used military parachutes. There was a notice above the inventory stating, "No returns on parachutes." No shit? How would you like to be the unfortunate soul who has to find this out the hard way? A dead man can't return anything; therefore, if you have the return department turn you down, you've probably already been effed for the rest of your short, crippled existence. On the plus side, I thought that I had met Larry the Cable Guy there and then promptly gave him the rods-up (English finger). Anyways, Ron (Tater Salad) White is way funnier--if you're into that humor, and that's about the only one of those guys I can stomach.

Second Place: The park. A good walk in the park is always necessary if you're going to unwind. It was there that I thought up a rather crude invention: Playdough Workshop for Dogs. If you've never played with Playdough as a kid, then I am moved by your exodus that you endured from Siberia. For the rest of us, Playdough had that workshop that you could squeeze the Playdough through a template that would make all these different shapes of extruded dough, i.e. star, square, leprechaun. Anyways, this idea hit me right after I stepped in a big pile of dog shit. This is what happens when someone gives you the idea to look out for bird shit and your attention is diverted from the ground to the sky (thanks C). So, I thought that it would have been a more positive and entertaining incident if I had stepped into a pile of sausage-lengthed, star-shaped dog poo. How this invention would work is still a mystery to me, and it's going to stay that way. Anyways, I can't see a humane way to implement the device.

Third Place: The old Union Pacific Station. A good haunted location. I almost got my ass kicked by a ghost there, once. Also, my other grandfather (not Vern) worked for the UP railroad, so it reminds me of him. I loved him and didn't get to see much of him before he died. So, I like to look at the old cars and locomotive engines and think about what life was like for grandad out working 16 hours a day in the railyard. It was there that I noticed some hobo and gang graffiti. Some of it was cool and some of it not so much (swastikas and other stupid racist shit). But one tag intrigued me above them all, it just said "Hobo Frankenstein". Who in the hell, or what rather, is Hobo Frankenstein? That name's the shit! I thought that my moniker was good, but I can't, and neither can any of you, top Hobo Frankenstein. So, my new life goal is not to do a film with Bollywood starlet Priyanka Chopra, but to meet Hobo Frankenstein.

This day is not over. I still have time to hang out behind a Mexican restaurant, which is hilarious fun, highly recommended. Who knows? I just might bump into Hobo Frankenstein.

The "Springtime" story. Once upon a time...

There was a young man named The Grunt. The young man had always wanted to have special powers, but nature seemed to give him the "short" end of the stick. Then one day a magical fairy came to visit The Grunt. "Who are you", the young man asked the strange being.

The magical fairy replied, "I am Willowkins, the saucy merman. I'm full of spunk and magical wonder."

Bewildered, The Grunt probed further, "What are you doing in my joss room, queermo?"

Slightly offended at The Grunt's somewhat hateful tone, Willowkins replied with a little spice, "Fine, I was going to give you three wishes, but now you only get one, you meanie! Harrumph!!!"

Becoming intrigued, The Grunt pondered the possibilities of having one wish coming true. Well, I could wish for invisibility. Then I could rob banks, haunt the White House, and watch naked girls shower. Nah, what about if I wished for world peace? Well, where's the fun in that? Uh-uh, I think that if I could have one wish I would want a super power. Yes, that's it!

Willowkins waiting patiently asks, "So honey, what'll it be?" After a considerable pause, Willowkins bursts out with head shaking attitude, "I haven't got all day, hon. This girl's got to get her manicure on."

"Alright, alright...don't flip your sea shells, missy. I got my wish all figured out."

"Well?"

"Okay, do you know that one cartoon, 'Apache Chief'?"

"No, not really. Please explain for me, why don't you?"


The Grunt then excitedly explained, "Yeah, here's this guy, right? He's just this regular, loin cloth wearin' Indian dude, but when he calls out 'Inuk-Chuk' he grows to be like a hundred feet tall and shit!"

Willowkins starts to giggle, "That's the stupidest thing that I've ever heard. Did your mother have any children that lived?"

"Yeah, um...no, what?" A little frustrated with Willowkins riddle, The Grunt continued, embarrassed, "Well, I was thinking that you could do the same thing for me...." The Grunt pauses, pointing down with nudging eyes, and says in a high whisper, "But, you know...for down there."

Willowkins pursed his mouth, then gave The Grunt a sly wink, saying, "Ohhhh...It's not your length that matters hon; it's your amount of girth that'll move the earth. Don't you know that my little clam-bake cupcake, hmmn?"

The Grunt, in no mood for games any longer, replied, "It's my choice, my wish. Give it to me, now: I say my magic word of choice, 'Shazam', and it makes that Six Million Dollar Man sound 'bananananah'. Then it just gets all huge 'n' stuff. Sweet dude, this is gonna be totally killer!"

Willowkins thinks over details that factor in beyond the simple man's desires and decides that a quest is in order to teach the young man a lesson about getting what you asked for. "Okay beanie, I'll grant you this wish, but only if you complete a quest."

"Yeah, sure. I'll do whatever to get on with the phallongulating." The Grunt then trailed off mumbling, lost in his fantasy world, "Oscar my boy, you seem a little frail today. Let me Excaliberize you, 'Shazam!!!' My, what big teeth you have..."

Willowkins interrupted The Grunt's daydreaming, and continued, "Well, are you done? Can we continue? Good. The quest that you must go on is a perilous one. You must go to the desert, find the ancient petroglyphs and decipher them. They'll guide you in The Fiery Furnace, where you'll be tested."

So, having all the necessary information that he needed, The Grunt then asked Willowkins, "Dude, can you like give me a lift to that place you just talked about?"

Willowkins beamed, "Of course, you silly sausage. It's the pink Miata outside."

Willowkins and The Grunt left the smelly joss room with it's billowy, incense fouled linens and hopped into the fabulous pink Miata with a Kylie Minogue mix tape playing the whole way down.

When the twosome arrived in the sweltering desert, the enormity of the rock and sand scared Willowkins, who grabbed the nearest knee not of his own and excited The Grunt, just a little.

"Well, mister, this is where you get off." Willowkins' eyes grew moist with dewey drops of gay emotion, bit his lip, waved his hands in front of his chest, then added, "Come here you bitch" and gave The Grunt a makeover hug and kiss.

"Alright, oh, that's enough now...gotta get going. Don't put that there!" The Grunt said his goodbyes, turned to the west, and was off on a walkabout.


The ancient petroglyphs were not that far away. Willowkins had given The Grunt good directions and he arrived there in no time at all. One thing about The Grunt, he doesn't like to read, but he likes to look at pictures, so deciphering the petroglyphs was second nature to him.

Hmmn, The Grunt thought to himself. If this is correct, there is a glory hole located within The Fiery Furnace. This is where I will be tested. But, it also says that El Diablo lurks within its maze. I'll have to watch out for that guy. Pressing forward, The Grunt saw a fissured mass of rocks in front of him: The Fiery Furnace.


It was there in The Fiery Furnace that The Grunt had to remember the directions from the petroglyphs. Turn right at the rock, go down to the funny looking rock, ten paces kitty corner, then up and over the next rock. Behold, the glory hole. 'Tis a beautiful and sensuous thing. Finding himself in a rather amorous mood, The Grunt did what came naturally to him and climbed up and mounted the glory hole.

At first, it was smooth sailing. They don't call it slickrock for nothing. The Grunt then remembered that the petroglyphs promised him his magic powers would be granted in The Fiery Furnace. It was how he used them there that would determine if he would be worthy enough to take them with him back home. It was then that The Grunt decided to try out his magic word and impress upon Mother Nature who's cock crows the loudest, "Shazam!!!" (bananananah). What happened next was terrible. "I'm Stuck. What the hell is that thing? Holy shit, it's...it's Oscar!"

Not knowing what to do, The Grunt tried furiously to do the prom date pull-out maneuver. No luck, he had become fused solid with the rock. His magnificent hammer had suffered a heavy dose of Phallis Petrifius and he would surely die if he could not get free. At a total loss of how to remove himself from this jam, The Grunt called out for Jesus. Nothing happened. Then, remembering something from a Simpson's episode, he called out, "Save me Jebus". Just then a mysterious dark figure appeared before him, or rather to the side of him, due to obvious hindrances. The Grunt frantically asked the dark stranger if he was Jebus. The dark stranger said, "El Diablo at your service, sir."

The Grunt replied, "Close enough."

El Diablo said, twisting his moustache, "So, what seems to be the pickle, if I may ask?"

The Grunt broke down in a girlie sob, explained, "I got my pee pee caught in the sandstone whoo-ha, and now I can't get it out."

El Diablo then worked through the scenario in his head and offered The Grunt a deal, "You know, I can help you get it out of there and back to normal size if you do one thing for me in return."

"And I get to keep my special powers?"

"Yes, you get to keep your magic fun telescope."

"Anything, please, I'll do anything."

"Alright, here's the deal: you have to give me your soul in return for getting you out of there and retaining your power."

"No deal, buster", The Grunt said defiantly.

"What, you no likey the deal? Come on man, it's just your puny soul I want. You get to keep Excalibur there, too."

The Grunt thought about this long and hard, then longer, harder, and faster. Well, what good is an enormous wiener if the only thing it's good for is scaring people and breaking my back? What was it that Willowkins said? Oh yes, "It's not your length that matters hon; it's your amount of girth that'll move the earth." His fond memories of little Oscar came flooding back to him: the sandbox, underneath the bleachers, Rosie Palms and her five little sisters, Julia Childs. It was something that he took for granted. He had flown too close to the sun, and now his wings of wax could not melt any less ironically. I don't need a giant wangdoodle after all. I''m just fine the way I am. Thinking quickly, The Grunt came to a compromise with El Diablo: Have lunch with him and listen to boring stories from hell. The Grunt would be free, but lose his special power. He, however, would keep his soul.

The End?

Hey...pssst

I think your boss is looking at you right now. You better get back to work.

D'oh!

It's been one of those days. I got out a bowl to make toast. What the hell's wrong with me? I think having a picture in my mind of Janet Reno with a shlong has distracted me: thanks Crystal. I promise a story is in the works.

Spring Has Sprung

What's all this white stuff doing on my lawn?

Sung to the tune of The Farmer and the Dale

My pants are falling down.
My pants are falling down.
Hi-ho the merry-o,
My pants are falling down.

The belt's moved in a notch.
The belt's moved in a notch.
Hey-ho all systems go,
The belt's moved in a notch.

Wearin' those old jeans again.
Wearin those old jeans again.
Oh the luck, I need to cluck,
Wearin' those old jeans again.

Bulletin

It seems that Blogger won't let me in to some of your sites. Have you guys been posting naked pictures of old people? Anyways, I've picked up the "Tales of an Irresponsible Time Traveler" again. That's a notice for the three people who used to read it, and the one lady who gave me way too much information about herself in the comments section. If you're new to that one, you have to start reading from the earliest post, then work your way through to the top.

Things To Do In The Desert

I'd like to talk about Butt Effin' Egypt, or more commonly known as the desert. Pictured at the top is a nifty man who paid me fifty bucks to play hide 'n' go seek. He said that the field glasses and rifle were only for show. That's me pictured below. Fortunately, I know of a lot of good hiding places and this really nice old couple gave me a ride home, with a stop at a local choke 'n' puke for frosty chocolate milkshakes. I never found out if that nice man ever had a clue where I was. Anyways, I thought that it'd be fun to do a list: a list of things to do in the desert.

1. Hide a dead body
2. Shoot stuff with guns. It's kewl!
3. Find a dead body
4. Poke said corpse with a stick or fancy umbrella.
5. Wear a trucker's cap without any irony involved.
6. Recreate the battle of Gettysburg with jack rabbits.
7. Watch yokels burn nerve gas incompetently.
8. Fall in one of thousands of unmarked mine shafts.
9. Fall in two mine shafts, if the first one is shallow.
10. Let a body part (your choice) dangle in the wind.
11. Fart, belch, pick your nose without any guilt or shame.
12. If you have no shame, please put your pants on now.
13. Blue staters can live out their wildest red state fantasies, say, by burning an effigy of a secretly despised liberal icon. I mean, will somebody please burn Barbara Streisand, anyone?
    
14. Red staters can "act" out scenes from Brokeback Mountain, for research purposes of course.
15. Lay right down in the sagebrush and ____________.
16. Drink beer and leave the cans right where you finished them.
17. Dump toxic waste: dorm room couch, paint, grandma.
18. Do the American Idol version of finding the next David Koresh, Ted Kaczynski, or Timmy McVeigh.
19. Do the most absurd thing possible: I like to disguise myself as Margaret Thatcher and fool the country folk into paying their poll tax, TV license, and after I get their money, I call them all poxy bastards. Wait a minute, this has nothing to do with #19.
20. Get poked by a stick or a fancy umbrella.

Did I miss any? I'd sure like to hear any of your suggestions.

It Figures

Why is it when ever I try to improve my diet and eat better it's free candy, donut, Mountain Dew day at work? Oh, and fifty people are having birthdays and there's cakes, muffins, eclairs, and old ladies on the street corners giving out Snickers bars, fresh baked cookies, and Jolly Ranchers: why?

As I watched the premier of the Sopranos on Sunday, I noticed that I'm starting to look like Tony Jr., but with a full head of luscious hair. Dammit! So it's come down to this: eating better and exercise. It's no longer the days of being twenty one, skinny, with my nice rack of Fabio buds forming from all my bench pressing. All this is maintained while surviving on pizza and shooting up Jolt cola and freebasing pig fat.

Now, my greatest fear is that if I don't nip things in the bud, I'll have to start wearing a "bro". There was a time were I could do full days, back to back, of skiing moguls and still be ready for whatevers. I'm a better skier than I was back then technically, but having to wipe the knee cap off your goggles can be a bit stomach churning.

I think that the final straw for me was a restaurant serving some corned beef and cabbage, in honor of St. Patrick's Day. I had to get it. Yes, I willingly bought and ate corned beef and cabbage. You would not believe the shit I went through after consuming that poison, literally. Plus, that cabbage filled my belly with so much gas, it was like I was being prepped for a laparoscopy.

Reminds me of a scene from Monty Python's The Meaning of Life, where they feature a Catholic family living somewhere in Yorkshire and they sing about how every sperm is sacred and something like this, "...because, God won't let me wear one of those little rubber things around my cock." Okay, not that part, but this one seemed apropos, (mum, doing the washing up has a baby, sans the usual labor pains and noises--baby plopping to the ground) "Will you get that, Deirdre?" Only if it were that easy. Damn pepto didn't do anything for me.

Well, I think that I went a little off track there. Not my usual coherent rant. Anyways, I hope that today I can maintain.

Perfect Day=Perfect Week?

This one should porbably be posted on my other blog, 120 db's, but what the hell. I've been listening to Lou Reed's album Transformer over and over this weekend. I played that song "Perfect day" this morning at least fifteen times. I'm trying to set the tone for the rest of the day and hopefully the rest of the week will follow. "You're gonna reap just what you sow."

The Face

This is a self portrait. It's a charcoal piece, with some chalk highlights in places. It is unfinished: Something about finishing it scared me, so I stopped. Pulling that face was my instructor's idea when she took my photo (to create more lines), of which was used as my reference. The eye on the right (my left eye) was almost shut and in the shade. That's why it is darkened out. The eye on the left (my right eye) is all you need to know about this piece. That is the part that I nailed. The rest I had a hard time getting right. I wouldn't be satisfied with the way this turned out, but that eye makes it work. You've also been treated to my real name. Now, all my mystique is gone.

I feel like I'm looking into a mirror when I look at this piece. The mirror reflects all my rage back at me. This was my last work while I was at college. I got interested in psychology and never returned to this period. This is a good thing. Between psychology and various writing and literature classes, I picked up on new skills and gained specific knowledge that drives my passion for real story telling (not hoity-toity literary crap). I think my artistic talents are better suited for what will be my stories to come.

P.S. I'm not a fan of pictures of myself, so this will probably be all you'll see of the elusive Grunt. Also, I'm not a mean guy. I promise.

More Grunt Art: Whitley Bay

This is a pastel that I did sometime ago. You'll need to click on the image to get the full detail of the work. Whitley Bay is East of Newcastle in Northern England. I love this place. I love the Geordies (although Geordies are really from Wallsend and Newcastle). This work was derived from a picture that I took. It's more of a mood piece, incorporating some skewed perspective. This is my favorite work of mine. It takes me directly to that place every time I look at it. Ironically, I'm a terrible painter.

Childhood Fears: Or why Sammy Davis Jr. scares the hell out of me.

Childhood: The start of a journey where everything goes right or wrong and determines the trajectory of the rest of your mortal life. This is how I feel sometimes. I mean, there was the time when I was four, hanging out with my brother and his friend, that my bro's friend decided to get rid of me by handing me a Hustler mag and told me to go show it to my mom. I did, but after looking through it perplexed, finding a layout of a woman that looked like my mother, then going to my mother and saying, "Mommy, this lady looks like you." I got my hide tanned after that (Yes, I got physically whooped by my parents--it was all the rage back then). Talk about the Freudian ramifications of that event, sheesh!

Then there was this other time where my brother, fourteen at the time, stole my dad's Cadillac, and I was stupid enough to go along with him. My brother was the type of teenager that would babysit us kids loaded, throw grapefruits through cop's windshields, or if bored start fires. He's totally changed, since.

Continuing with our story, So here I am, four years old, and riding around with my 13 year old brother in a "stolen" Caddy (if you knew my dad then you'd know that if you took anything of his, even if you were family, you were a thief). So, my brother decides that driving through orange groves and doing donuts in vacant lots would be fun babysitting activities. It was fun, until we ran out of gas in a vacant lot, just off of Central Avenue in Phoenix.

My brother used his best judgment and left me in the car all by myself and then went home, got ripped, then forgot about me and the car. It wasn't until my mom came home and started wondering where the car was (my dad was on a business trip) that my brother remembered what had happened. No one wondered where I was. So, the bro runs back five hours later to the lot and finds me singing songs from the Muppet Movie to myself in the car. See, I was having a good time after all.

Changing gears now, these experiences ultimately led to some serious problems in my life. First, I have no idea just exactly what that "incident" with the mag and the spanking did to me, but there's no way around that sucker--I'm sure it screwed me up some. Second, Fozzy the Bear still appears to me in times of crisis. Very troubling stuff here. However, fears can be overcome, somewhat. I have had phobias of fish for a long time and I can't figure out where this one started. I'd literally go into shit tizzies if I had to touch a fish. Now, I am an avid fisherman, who secretly hopes not to catch fish. It has been my way of confronting fear. I still throw shit tizzies when I have to touch fish; I just do it quietly, now. So, what about Sammy Davis Jr.?

Back in the old neighborhood in Phoenix, there was a kid named Dougie. Dougie had an underdeveloped eye the size of a pea, but had a regular sized eye socket. He had a special glass eye to put in his socket. Dougie wanted friends. Dougie thought that I'd make a good friend. This is Dougie's way of making friends: chase you down and pin you, take out his glass eye and spread his eyelids out so you can see the "pea". He'd also rub the glass eye on your face, chase you around with it out, and other fun stuff. You'd think that this would be enough, but no, there's one more character to this story: Danny.

Danny lost his eye in an accident and had to get a glass eye. Danny was in my first grade class. Danny liked to torment me with his glass eye. First of all, he never washed the damn thing, so it looked like he had greasy oatmeal caked on it. Plus, Danny liked to stick tissues on his eyeball. They'd just hang there...ewwwww!

So, what were the consequences of being exposed to these guys and their glass eyes? Well, first off, I would sometimes work myself into a panic thinking that one of my eyeballs was going to fall out. I even used to feel like something would take over me, like the devil, and make me poke my eyes out. I know this sounds pretty silly, but we are talking about phobia here, and phobias are by definition irrational.

So here I am, a kid, watching something with Jerry Lewis on the TV, then who else joins him on stage but Sammy Davis Jr. It was at that point that I noticed that one eye didn't track with the other eye: it was just sitting there. I felt instant panic starting from my heart and throughout my spine. My whole body tensed up, and I ran away into my room, hiding in the closet. Then it's "Wakka wakka!", Fozzy Bear dancing and singing right in front of my eyes until the pain goes away. It's the same deal with that Sandy Duncan lady. Damn Wheat Thins commercials scared the shitola right out of me. I've had some suspicions on Forest Whitaker, but me thinks he's just deformed.

So, how am I now? I got over the eyeball phobia when I was around twelve. It's scary how childhood trauma or even seemingly benign events can alter the personality. It shapes us, makes us who we are. We can go to therapy and try to desensitize, erase, and think rationally about our fears. I think that I've at least got the eyeball one under control. But one thing, just in case: I better be close to a "safe" closet if I happen to hear "I gotta be me" again. Wakka wakka!

Grunt Ahoy Readers: You guys are great!

I've got to give a shout out to my loyal blog mates. You guys have helped me a great deal in keeping this blog thing going and keeping the quality top notch. I would have been content to try this out for a while, say a few months, then just kept on writing little stories in my head.

The thing that has been great is the new crop of Grunt Ahoy readers. I love you guys, too. I just wish that you were able to catch legendary posts such as "Weasel Killer", "Ghost of Abraham Lincoln", "New Swear Word", "Duh Okay and the Case of the Fishy French fries", and "Cheeseball's Revenge" just to name several examples . This is classic Grunt Ahoy and I haven't quite made my way back to form, yet.

I've been going through a creative slump and decided to try out new things and I think that I'll keep it mixing in things like this from now on. I just want to make sure that you new readers check out my archive. Don't take my word for it; hopefully, some of my long time readers will list their all time Grunt Ahoy favorites in the comments section and you newbies can check them out. Also, it's time for the lurkers to surface, at least for this post: Grunt Ahoy role call y'all.

Mexican Food Tramp

I got busted. Tonight, I went to one of my many favorite Mexican food restaurants and was confronted by the lady who owns the place. First, a little history for you. She knows my name and I've never told her it. When it's been a long time since I've been there, she asks me where I've been and why I don't come around more often. She always remembers what I ordered last and thinks that's what I'm going to order again; in fact, she even knows what I haven't tried on the menu. I know I'm a good tipper, but there's something more going on here.

So, I go in there tonight right before closing time and she looks at me accusingly and says, "Oh, you haven't been here in a while." Followed with, "What have you been doing?"

I just acknowledged her question with, "Yeah, it's been awhile...how are you?"

She showed me to the table and looked at my brother and me with a boiling hurt saying in her thickening accent, "My sister says she saw you guys' truck down the street at El Burrito. What were you guys doing there, huh?" She stood there burning a hole with her eyes to sear the betrayal right into my soul.

I really felt bad. I don't know why I should feel bad, but I did. It was like I had cheated on her. This is some screwed-up Woody Allen shit right here, I'll tell you. The only explanation I could offer this sweet lady was that I like their chili Colorado and that her restaurant doesn't serve it.

Her reply, "How come you don't ask me? I can make you chili Colorado right here."

The sad part of this is that the closest thing I got to a woman right now is this jealous old Mexican lady. Oh well, at least I'm well fed.

Mysterious Nocturnal Activities

I know that I've been writing some heady and serious (for me) posts lately. But, I'm dead serious about this one. No, this is not another riff on the somnambulist theme. What happens is that I wake up every morning lately feeling as though someone's been punching me all over my body, especially the kidneys. I know that several, if not all of my readers have Fight Club as a favorite movie/book. What if...hmmmmn? I guess that if I start making soap then I should worry.

Another theory that I have is that I am a superhero, but only on a subconscious level. I sleep then transform into Nocturnal Man. I help save people from succumbing to sleep apnea, crib death, or embarrassing wet dreams (cold pack to the crotch). The bruises come from bumping into things, because it's dark at night.

The reality is that I'm probably falling out of bed again. I used to do this all the time as a kid and it would hardly ever wake me. I'd just climb back up unto the top bunk and continue sleeping, never remembering what had happened. If it weren't for my big brother witnessing it, then I would have never suspected anything. I even once fell from the top bunk and hit the back of my head on a chair on the way down. My brother said that I got up, rubbed the back of my head, circled around a few times moaning, then went back to bed. I bet you're all asking yourself, " why didn't his brother just give him the bottom bunk?" Sleeping under my brother's fat ass would have been more dangerous. There's only so much stress that bed could handle and I wasn't very keen on finding out that way.

So that's my current situation. I'd like to hear from you, my readers, as to what you think is going on with me. I welcome all your zany theories.

Death Cults

Which one is your favorite? I prefer Jim Jones and the People's Temple over Marshall Applewhite's Heaven's Gate cult. There's something about the whole Jonestown mass suicide/massacre that is more impressive than black track suits and Nikes, with a purple diamond sheet covering your rotting corpse. Also, Heaven's Gate followers were all about comet Hale Bopp veiling a mothership. Come on, this is not a good enough reason for me to castrate myself and live off of Crystal light for the rest of my short life.

There have been smaller cult's popping up now and then. There was the Scandinavian one that I barely remember happening after the Heaven's Gate suicide fiesta. Oh, and the Japanese nerve-gas-in-the-subway path to God. David Koresh and the Branch Davidians would have just ended up as an eclectic rock band if the ATF didn't crash their compound (damn you Janet Reno). Seriously though, that group would have ended up the same way that most of these cults do, and that's badly. I've been thinking that we're due for another wave of these cults popping up before 2012, the year the Mayan calendar ends.

Let's examine what a death cult is: A system of religious beliefs that have death as a pathway to salvation as their core doctrine (and/or the death of a central figure brings about life), all of which consists of a body of followers. What part of that sounds different from that old time religion? I bet the only difference is that it's a matter of numbers and adherence to conventions.

Aren't most of us taught that our real treasures are elsewhere and to get there we must first die? Now I can accept that things can get better when I die, but I don't want to live my life thinking that I must forfeit something here so I can get it there (that's omitting sane sacrifices). That to me smacks of social control. Now here's the most devious part of it all, these more conventional groups don't tell you to off yourself, or speed up the process. Why is this? Because there is a need for you to stick around and do what they want you to do. "They" are in the real sense shepherds and a lot of us are the livestock, or as you might have gleaned from my profile message, chattel: property. They use the death cult concept to serve themselves. They would get nothing out of it if you were to kick the bucket prematurely. However, this is but one part of the "They concept" (revealed later). Some parts would actually benefit from your death, say, at retirement; while another depends on the senior turnout at the polls--kind of a double edged sword--try to guess which ones I'm referring to, it's fun. Anyways, I digress.

Who are "They"? Good question. I don't know how to refer to them in any other way. It's so overlapping and redundant, an MLM of mass manipulation, a trickling down of dividends and awareness, if you will. I think that a number of us are aware of it and are savvy enough to use the system while not letting the system become us.

Continuing, They is a product of "We", the masses/people, and is an interaction of religion, business (who use the "live for today, buy before you die" spin), and government (you are unsafe, unless...). Business and government are the oftentimes heartless two-thirds who I said that I'd mention to you from before. They "is", and while not actually being any one of the three, the "is" is the sum of its parts. It's sort of an omnipresent entity of our own making that actually competes with God (his foil), rather than draws us closer to him. We do this to ourselves, I believe.

Let's focus on the religious part term for a bit. They is born of necessity, convenience, and culture. They are demigods who act as relative intermediaries between the celestial authorities and ourselves. By this I mean that they are not go-betweens, rather that They are a cultural model on earth of what we perceive our celestial authority to be. It's how we relate the concept with the reality and how we cope with our own inevitable death. This is what we get out of the deal. It relieves us of the burden of the highest levels of leading with it's responsibilities, moral guidance, and salving life's ugly realities. Just be aware of their motives before surrendering yourself to their way.

Salvation is more perceptively attainable when it comes with a trademark. "This is an official pathway to God as sanctioned, certified, and anointed by the Lord himself, so said the founder who had it revealed to him in a hot dog stand." So said some guy (boy, I feel sorry for the real messengers--God's got to tell somebody). "I've never met God, but Bob said he did and I believe him, 'cause Bob would never lie. Now my eternal soul hinges on what Bob's unverifiable experience has produced. I guess that I'm caught in a catch 22 of exercising faith." Now this sounds more like our harmless crazies only cult, doesn't it? But switch out Bob with Moses or Abraham, and hot dog stand with a mountain top and what do you have?

I think that the best way to choose a death cult is to see what kind of fruit that they bare. Do they want you to make an immediate "jump" to salvation? Why do They want your money? They all do because nothing runs just on sunshine and moonbeams, right? Well, at least nothing can run on moonbeams. Make sure that your money is going to do the kind of good that you expect it to and that you get your God money's worth. It's God's money and he should know how to spend it properly, right? Find out where it goes, that'll tell you volumes about the religion that you subscribe to.

Continuing on with this process of scrutiny, what kind of men and women lead the flock? Do their financial welfare and interests depend on church funds? If so, are those leaders using that to profit unjustly? What amount of this money goes back into the flock? Is there manipulation of the flock for political purposes, saying that blessings and/or their salvation depends on their compliance? They might use the concept of one's death as a sacrifice for all to inflict guilt, rather than hope, or using your own inevitable death as leverage of fear and uncertainty to get you with the program. You perform a role in mortality so that you may "live" in happiness and paradise in the hereafter, death being the gate; They are the hinge that swings that gate, manipulating our perceptions of death.

See how the concept of dying to live can be used to benefit a few relatively powerful people? See how government could use a benign facade in religion to affect minds and votes. Think of how a crafty politician plays the religion card and how religious leaders apply pressure to politicians to get what they want. So it is what it is, then, right?

Well, there is hope for religion, I believe. In a good religion this element is minimized enough to where it doesn't effect your spirituality and at least some of us on this earth have a choice of which religion we'd like to follow. But, we still can be slave to the concept of death and making deals to overcome death's trappings in order to secure a better life beyond--our insecurities can betray us into making hasty commitments and life choices. We have words and exhortations that tell us what is beyond and what to do. We get warm fuzzies and revelations of our own as to what's true, but still we do not actually know. It is our lack of knowledge of the hereafter that is our weak spot and the reality that only death will bring about the answers is the real kicker.

We need placation and succor. That is why cults can get a number of people to commit suicide and why a good deal of the rest of us are willing to go along with the name brand "safe" religions, some of which might belong to the They. I know what I believe and it's as arbitrary as the next differing view, yet I continue. However, I continue with a knowledge that while I must have conviction and faith, I must also be humble enough to accept the possibility that I might have been misled. Because, if I am prideful and not open to this possibility, if I have not the truth, truth will pass me by unnoticed.

Just remember this and you'll be okay: If you live your life so that you won't have to fear the reaper, no one will be able to hold your afterlife as collateral. I don't have a problem with following a path to God. I just have a problem with the traffic cops, tour guides, the idiots, and toll booths along the way.

Shalom.

(This post has been updated and altered since)

Somnambulist Awake!

I've had suspicions for some time now that my reality has not been what it seems. Between catching myself doing things unexplainable, and having the wherewithal to ask myself what it was that I was doing, I noticed that I'd been sleepwalking most of my life. I've been part of an apparatus unaware--perhaps the liver--I've had to deal with poisonous tasks. I don't know why I've allowed myself to be taken over by them, but for most of my life they have been my caretaker and lord. Now that I've had some time to process and overcome some of my programming, I'm beginning to see. There are many like me who sleepwalk and few who are free.

It's not as mysterious as I once tried to believe, this controlling force that compels me. I see that we all tend to immerse ourselves in tasks. Where is our free time? Tasks that are given to us by our "masters" in order to exert control over us are forcing us into a sleepwalk state. I've wondered, who wishes to keep us sleeping most of the time and why? Whoever it is, needs me, don't they? There seems to be redundant and varied levels of sleepwalkers, but I've found that I'm unique, special. I'm required to be entirely controlled. There are things, terrible things, that society needs to be done. It's my job to do those things; to be inhuman and ruthless. But with my new found awareness I ask, Is it too much to ask to feel human?

It seems that I'm like an action figure, taken out of a box once in a while when I'm needed to do dirty deeds. It is in this action mode that I'm closest to waking. It is also in this state that I'm sent to drive the dagger in, so to speak. Somewhere between the victim's struggle for life I have had chances to wake and stop what I was doing--a realization that one person's struggle to live may be the only life that they experience. It is in this moment that demonstrates how dead I am in contrast. A realization that I do not truly love, that I do not have real passion or vitality, that I have no tangible identity, that in my mindless obedience I learn neither discipline or have any real satisfaction, only that I consume and continue to move about as if on a wire.

I'm not a full sleeper now; I'm malfunctioning, and this is the source of my inner discord. I'm half aware of my bondage and too weak to deviate from my purpose. I assume that if I were a sleeper again then it would not be an issue at all, so I must fully awake.

I've wondered what happens when one awakes and breaks free from the apparatus. Is the sensation of liberation dangerous? Will it arouse other sleepers around you? Will they seek the destruction of their masters, or reject the fact that they are not free and turn on their liberator? Will the body reject me?

I wonder if there is anything more threatening than the concept of real freedom? I'd like to think that we are indeed free, but may I ask, are you and I truly free? Who owns your dwelling, really? Who can take your property at the mention of immanent domain? Who pipes suggestions at regular intervals for you to consume? Who carefully selects what you read, think, and believe? What resources do you have, really? Who has an inordinate amount of resources at their feet? Why will it never matter who becomes president anymore? Go ask William Hearst; go ask the Rockefellers; go and ask the elite with their secret societies. But thoughts like that are for the paranoid, aren't they?

I'm tired of fleeting belief, hope, and placation. I itch for more control of my swinging limbs, my routine, and the ability to stop doing these horrid errands that I'm sent on. Although my box is comfortable and warm, I know that it is my death. But, I don't have to worry in my box--invisible, but real--I spend most of my time thinking in there about baseball, reliving childhood memories, the kind of car I want, and what women I'd like to have. In my box I live syntheticly. In my box I sense no time. In my box I die. Life slips away while I dream up more and more fantasies. Those fantasies can't be used to pass time anymore. My anger fills this box, oozing in like antifreeze, sweet and deadly, thawing out the dormant awareness which overcomes the cattle-brained yearnings of a worker bee.

Whatever the apparatus wants it must get. What am I to have other than a stay of execution? My life is maintained so long as it is useful. I sense that I'm not supposed to be thinking about these things. I wonder if they are aware that I'm learning?

I am a somnambulist waking.


(Inspired from the classic German expressionist film The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1919). This was loosely based on the somnambulist character, Cesare's, point of view, but it probably comes across as a Matrix rip off and could be confused with some Dune references. This is just a riff on the whole puppet/puppet master theme.)

You've Heard of TGIF? Well, Today is S-H-I-T!

So Happy It's Thursday!

Vern

This is my other remaining cyanograph. I used an old picture, got a large blown-up negative of it, then did the graph. It's a lot of work to turn a picture blue, but it looks cool. You can see some texture in this one. I used a course paper, very pulpy. Sorry, this isn't weird. I've included extra pictures for you. Of course, I can't take credit for them.

This is Vern. He's hanging out on the ranch sitting on the tub of an old Lizzy in this graph. Vern was born 1899 in Ferron, Utah. He started herding sheep when he was eight. Even at that age, he'd stay up with the sheep and his dog overnight, by himself. At age nine Vern bought an 1889, 32 caliber Winchester Special rifle off an old outlaw/prospector. This helped him kill off coyotes and other predators, so as to protect his flock. Vern also was a crack shot, so long as his target was moving. He has been known to hit a deer running at full steam between the eyes. If he had to use more than one round to do the job, then he was pissed off. He liked to ride the rails and always carried his Winchester Special or his Colt Savage pistol.


(Dapper Vern with a stogie, left picture; Cowpoke Vern, right picture, sitting on the left.)

The amazing thing about Vern was that he was such a hard worker, fighter, and determined individual. He was afflicted with polio at three. This withered one of his legs to a degree, but he never made it an issue. By age twelve, Vern was old enough to work in the coal mines of Carbon County. His first job was setting explosives in the small crawlspaces and also drilling the holes for the dynamite, using a hand cranked drill. Vern worked in the mines until in his late thirties.

One of Vern's passions was fighting. Whether it was a boxing match or a bar room brawl, he would always win, or make the other guy wish that he'd lost. Vern also made many trips to Tijuana during prohibition. That's all that was said about that. You can figure out the rest.


(Vern and his gal, Genevieve, or Gennie.)

Vern was turned down by the Army during WWI for medical reasons (leg). He kept working hard and playing hard, until one of his fellow mine workers got killed in a mining accident. Vern got to know this man's widow and soon married her and adopted her soon to be born daughter. Vern began to change his ways, slightly. He still had tattoos up and down his arms and across his chest and back, made the odd trip to Tijuana; then, in time he had his own son. With a family to feed and the coal mines killing off his friends, Vern decided to take up a trade and become a machinist. After becoming a qualified machinist, Vern moved from his desolate hometown to the capitol, Salt Lake City.

Vern showed up one day at the offices of a machine shop that did work for Kennecott Mining Corporation. He walked in unannounced into the manager's office and told the manager that he was going to work for him. After some conversation, the manager said maybe. Vern said to hell with maybe and then instructed the manager to give him his own shop so he could cut gears for the big mining trucks...it worked. Vern got his shop, and Kennecott didn't have to wait for complex parts to be shipped from the factory, because he could do a gear in a half day. Mind you, this was before computer controls. Vern could do the complicated conversions of decimals to fractions, and any other machinist math in his head, as well as handle measurements, blueprints, and schematics with ease. This is from a guy who didn't finish the sixth grade.

Vern eventually got religion, had his tattoos removed the old fashioned way (grafted off) and grew old, enjoying his grandkids. While he was a mechanical genius (I have dozens of his tools that he made), he had a passion for raising ferns. Yes, that was his sense of humor shinning through: Vern's ferns.

When Gennie died, he came to live with my family. I came along later in my parents' life and when Vern was in his seventies. When he lived with us he would tell me stories of his youth, but never the ones of his "past". I found out about that stuff later from my dad. Vern was a good man. I remember going shopping with him and if there was a long line he'd push his way to the front, pissing everyone off. But, that was grandad. He was quite the rascal, even in his nineties. He told the nurse, on his dying bed, that his dink itched and then winked at her. I learned a hell of a lot from him in a short amount of time. Thanks, Vern.

Inside the Mind of The Grunt

I scanned the inside of my mind today and this is what turned up. I think there's a story in here somewhere. Actually, it's a scan of a cyanograph that I did a while ago. Except for the horrible scan, only horrible artwork was involved. But, yeah, this is the kind of weird stuff that floats around in my noggin. I hope I didn't frighten anybody too bad.

P.S. click on the image, then enlarge, to get the full detail.

"Lance" the Lobby Man

During my fast food years I worked with several mentally handicapped persons. In my archives you'll find a story called "Whoop!" about a girl named Judy "the jewel crusher"--read that one to see why I call her that. This little story is about a mature gentleman. I'll call him Lance, although that's not his real name.

Lance loved bikes. He had up to twenty bikes in his apartment at one time, all in states of disrepair. If one broke he'd go down to the local thrift store and buy another used one to fill his needs. I don't know how many bikes he's had in his life, but I can only imagine that fifty would probably be a conservative estimate. Of the bikes that he had at the time that I'd worked with him, he rode three: a blue one, a green one, and the red one--it's fast! Lance was in his late forties; a stocky fellow with a great round belly and strong arms and stout legs. His face was robust with expression, mostly sporting a wide open, gapped-tooth grin. His glasses are the type that adjust their shade to light conditions, but always seemed to stay somewhat dark. Lance preferred to accessorize his salt and pepper mop with a hat. Even he was insecure of his male-pattern baldness. His favorite pastimes, besides riding his bikes, was eating, telling jokes, Elvis, and sharing stories.

Lance's stories mostly consisted of telling how fast he rode his bike, then telling the same story over and over again Teletubby style. During the course of telling a story, his eyes would light up punctuating each part he thought was good, then when he'd finish the story his mouth would hang open and the eyes would go from a gleam to a marvelous wide sea. It was if he couldn't believe it himself. It didn't matter if it was that milk happened to be on sale that day or he passed a car up on his bike, he still found it amazing.

What I found amazing was his ability to take five sausage patties and stuff them right into his mouth, whole. You couldn't leave this guy alone with food laying around. I'd cook some bacon, lay it down on a prep tray, see Lance walk by, then the bacon disappears. It was hard to come down on the guy, though; he would flash a shit-eating grin, blush, then let out his trademark two-note laugh: (Huh)low push of air/pause/slurring up two octaves to the (hah) "Huh-haaaaah!" I couldn't get mad at him.

His jokes were usually of the knock-knock variety, but he confounded us with his "Come in Elvis!" routine. Lance loved Elvis. He would sing "Hound Dog" while out in the lobby wiping down tables. The grill team once got on the topic of Elvis. We were talking about where he'd be if he were still alive, what he'd look like, what kinds of things he'd be up to. During all of this, Lance was cleaning the back room. One guy even got talking about contacting Elvis through a seance. After that, we got a rush of customers and had to get cooking again. Once it slowed back down, Lance came by and started knocking on the walk-in refrigerator, muttering in a spooky, low-toned voice, "Come in Elvis...come in!" This mystified the hell out of us, but we got off on it, giving us a good belly laugh. He must've been listening in on our conversation. He did that one over and over again because he knew we thought it was funny. It was even funnier when people who were not in on it got treated to that "joke", especially customers. The repetitive joke telling was something him and Judy seemed to like a lot (see "Whoop!"). Sometimes, the two would be in the back room together jabbering away. You'd hear a loud "Whoop" followed by "Huh-haaaaah". Those were fun times.

Lance's bike riding get up was a windbreaker worn over his uniform, with his work hat on under his bike helmet--this made his helmet stand up high on his head. He always had a full back pack strapped tightly around his broad shoulders, full of sundries and books--ones that he couldn't comprehend too well, but enjoyed nonetheless. His riding style seemed to defy gravity. While he says he rides fast, the fastest I've seen him go was probably fifteen miles an hour. Most of the time he just balances the bike and then lets the rotation of the earth do the rest. I've never seen him frown when he's on his bike: open-mouthed joy...Lance the human fly trap. If he ever saw me, he'd holler out then laugh as we parted. Once my brother, whom I worked with there as well, was parked at a stop light. Lance came riding up behind my brother and started to have a short conversation with him, while riding his bike. That's just how slow he could ride; he could actually hold a conversation with my brother parked in his car, pedal, balance, and steer while looking away from where he was headed, all in the space of a car window.

Lance's bike stories usually were no more than a few sentences long, but as I said earlier, the face, mouth, and eyes told much more. An example: "I was riding my red bike today. It's real fast. It has a speedometer that goes to thirty. That's as fast as a car! When I came down the road, I passed a car. I went faster than a car! (lather, rinse, repeat)."

I always bought into his stories whole-heartedly. I could see him: a big, round muscle of a man with cyclone legs tearing down the main road, the sprocket's teeth flashing, spokes blurred into one solid mass, passing Corvettes, Jaguars, and 911's at full clip. The red paint (the paint that gave his bike magical powers of speed) on his bike starting to peel off from reaching the threshold of the impossible. This is what it must've seemed like to him, I suppose.

After I quit that job, I still saw him around. I know that every Sunday Lance would ride forty miles down to his mother's for dinner, visit for a few hours, then ride back home. I also could tell when he changed jobs--you wouldn't see Lance around the street. But, eventually he'd spring up somewhere else and always had a knack for spotting me, even if I was in someone else's car. One day Lance showed up at my door. This was about six years after I'd worked with him. I don't know how Lance figured out where I lived, but there he was grinning at me.

"Hi, Lance!"

"Hi...Huh-haaaaah!"

"Uh, do you want to come in?"

"Yes. Can you fix me a sandwich?"

"Yeah sure, man. Come on in."

I fixed Lance three sandwiches, two glasses of milk, a banana, and some soda crackers. He stayed about an hour and told me about his new job and how much he liked it. But, mostly he talked about our former job, Elvis, and his new orange bike. He wore out the red one.

When Garbage Trucks Fly

Long time Grunt Ahoy readers will have seen previous posts regarding my adventures in garbage collecting. This was a job that I had while going to school. It was hard work and extremely dirty. In those other early posts, I also introduced you to the Marlboro Man (M&M). This is the guy that I worked garbage with. He was also one of my best friends at the time. This story is also a continuation of a theme: stunts involving heavy machinery. The first one involved garbage truck wheelies. This one takes flight.

It was six months into my job working as a garbage collector/driver that the old man, who was running the small operation, decided to sell his business and retire. Who he sold it to is another story altogether, that involves a polygamist named Ralph (I'll get to Ralph some other time). Well, M&M and I weren't too happy about this acquisition, and we were a little disgruntled. We decided we'd do our time and then ditch these hillbillies.

One thing you got to know about M&M is that he had a mood disorder and had to take medication for it. This is something that he and his dad shared, but they didn't share the same prescription. About a week prior, having been dissatisfied with his own prescription, M&M decided to try out his dad's meds. This ended up bad. Not only was it the wrong medication in the first place, he also took too much.

M&M went out to do something with one of our other friends and had a 12-hour freakout as a result of this experiment. First thing that happened was he tried to leap out of the car going down the interstate. Friend #2 decided to pull off the interstate and into a gas station. He managed to calm M&M down, then went in the store to get some pop. When he returned M&M was not there. He looked around and discovered him in another car talking to a kid. Apparently, he thought that someone had kidnapped his nephew and was trying to get him to come home with him. Smartly, friend #2 got M&M out of that car before the parent came back out--crisis averted. He took him back home and set him in bed. About an hour into his nap, M&M woke up, stood on his bed, and started calling out football plays, then passed out again. What does all of this have to do with garbage trucks flying? Well after this unpleasant experience M&M decided to stop taking his medication. That was the week we discovered we were being sold out.

It was a Thursday. We had to take Thursday's load to a certain landfill. Going from this landfill back to our "depot" involved going down a badly paved road that crossed over a canal and two railroad tracks. M&M had been driving particularly aggressive that day and was in an unpredictable mood throughout, due to being off his meds. Going to the landfill, I started discussing what we were going to do about being sold: were we going to stay on, or quit, and after that, then what? I could tell that M&M wasn't taking this very well and wasn't speaking much. On the way out of the landfill, I decided to read a magazine that I had found. M&M wasn't making good conversation at the time, anyway. On the straights I noticed that he was going too fast, but assumed that he would slow down in time for the big bumps going over the various crossings. He didn't slow down.

The crossing over the canal was somewhat jarring. We did that at 35 MPH. "Slow down, dammit," I shouted. A growing feeling of insecurity was beginning to fill me with doubt over M&M's stability.

M&M rubbed his face then apologized, "Sorry man. I guess I'm just a little on edge, you know?"

I could understand, so I tried to placate him a little, "Yeah, it sucks, but we'll be alright."

He did slow down for a bit, but slowly crept back up to the same speed as before. I was back to looking at my Victoria's Secret...I mean, Time Magazine, and wondering if he'd slow down before we got to the Rio Grande line. He didn't slow down.

(Wump) "Dammitfucrapushithead...that hurt!" I had bounced from my seat (no seat belt) and had hit my head on the roof of the cab, because of the sudden pop over the tracks. I was one pissed off jackrabbit. I commenced chastising M&M, "Why'd you go and do that for?"

M&M wasn't responding. He had an F'd-up look on his eyes, like he was burrowing a tunnel through the mountain that was down the way.

I guess I thought that he'd snap out of it if I insulted him. "You are gonna kill us doing that, you bastard! Slow down, alright?" I said in a serious tone, fearing for my life.

"F--k it all! I don't care anymore, okay?" He certainly got my attention, then added, "I know how to drive. Leave me alone."

I wasn't so sure now that I'd be making it home. I surrendered myself to fate, exclaiming, "Crap almighty, I'm gonna die!"

I didn't pick that magazine back up. I figured that if I was going to die that day, I'd better leave the naughty thoughts behind and prepare to meet my maker. Besides, I had my eyes further down the road on the Union Pacific line--the big one. This rail line rose about twelve feet from the the road. It is a gentle rise but has a slight lip before the tracks, then it plateaus for a stretch of two rail lines, then slopes back down again. I looked over at the shaky speedo gauge, trying to decipher at what speed my death would occur.

"Not slowing down?" I asked matter of factly.

"*" Nothing, M&M had a kamikaze fix in on the line.

I tried to brace myself the best I could, but figured that any attempts to live were futile. We hit the small hill at about 40 MPH. The lip goosed us pretty hard, then nothing but air. In front of us there was an interstate overpass. I swear on my great grandmother that we ended up at eye level with it. We cleared the tracks completely. Two wheels on the front axle, eight on the tandem in the back. We got ten wheels hanging...holy shit! During flight, I hovered in the air without touching anything. Time slowed down to the point of being conscious of my blood flow. The landing was coming up, but I was at peace. I was pretty sure we'd brake a kingpin on the front axle and end up rolling on our side; I'd be thrown out, impaled on the shifter, or flung through the windshield out on the road with my brains dashed out of my skull--I accepted this.

We landed real hard on the decline. The tires chirped just like we were landing a jet liner. My spine still hurts from the landing, but the recoil was worse. I hit the roof of the cab again, but this time it was my whole body and not my head. I came down on the steel dash, bounced, then hit the floor board with my face. M&M was held in place by the gargantuan steering wheel. I was bleeding from my nose, my hands, and had bruises all over my body. Amazingly, the truck stayed true, and kept heading down the road after it got done bouncing a few more times.

After we got back in control, we were both full of emotion. I was curled up on the floor boards, swearing up and down at him for almost killing us. We both tried to suppress ourselves, but after my tantrum, we started crying and laughing because we were joyful that we'd made it. I'll never forget that day: the day when a garbage truck took flight.

Stereotype Fulfilled

My neighbor got hit by a woman driving an SUV, who was speeding and ran a stop sign. My neighbor and his son only had minor injuries, but the lady in the SUV didn't get a scratch. My neighbor recalls the conversation between the officer on the scene and the lady:

Officer: "You know that there's a stop sign there. You ran that, plus you were speeding."

Lady: "Well where I'm from (same state) we don't have stop signs like that."

Officer: "What, big red ones that have the word 'STOP' printed on it?"

Lady: "Well I couldn't see the stop sign."

Officer: "Mam, there were two warning signs prior to the intersection. I guess you don't have those where you come from, either?"

Lady: "*"

Officer: "I'm going to issue you a citation for speeding and running a stop sign....."

Lady: "What--why?"

I'm just curious, how many of you out there don't know what a stop sign looks like? BTW, most of the women that I know are good drivers, so please don't kill the messenger.

Restroom Run In

I don't want crap jokes and toilet stories to dominate my blog. I've already posted enough about this sort of thing to make people wonder about me. I'll be up front: the only thing that I'll bring up potty-wise is that this is where our story takes place. Oh yeah, you'll also learn a new bathroom term. See if you can spot it.

I regularly have to go to the payroll department at work and sort things out with my check. I know the guys up there pretty good. One fellow in particular (the head of payroll) is rather mischievous. This guy is best described as a "psycho-prankster". If you are familiar with some of the Peter Sellers' "Pink Panther" films, then you might remember the character Cato. Not only does this guy look like him, but he hides, then leaps out of nowhere screaming and attacks/scares you half to death or you just end up pissing your Dockers (Sansabelts, for the older bunch).

"Cato", as I'll refer to him now, also thinks its funny to pound on the restroom door and literally scare the crap out of you. The restroom by his suite is the type that is private and has a deadbolt lock. The deadbolt is a little loose, so it can bang loudly, back and forth. Also, being tiled, every noise is amplified and reverberates like crazy. Well here I was, around 5:30 pm, I thought that I was too late to catch anyone in payroll, but I see Cato's office light on and decide to go up there and bother him--maybe even get some payback.

I need to back up a bit to set up this next part. Pastrami is the meat of the Gods, as far as I'm concerned. I am a man who is beholden to its sublime mysteries and flavor. Before I die I must perform the "Trifecta", as accomplished by one George Costanza of "Seinfeld", in order to achieve eternal bliss. Oh, to sit upon a lotus with a pastrami on toasted rye with brown mustard, Ommm.... Here's another truth that I've learned form Seinfeld: pastrami is the sexiest of all the salt-cured meats--it's a fact! One thing about pastrami is, it sometimes comes accompanied with sauerkraut. I like sauerkraut, but sometimes it doesn't like me.

I had a #3 at a deli that I go to regularly for lunch. What is a #3, you ask? Why, it's a pastrami sandwich with brown, spicy mustard on marble rye. I know beforehand that eating certain things can be a crapshoot, so to speak(no pun intended). I just can't seem to reason effectively against the demands of my mouth, and my mouth once demanded German potato salad (pun intended--please laugh). Now, I made an important distinction here: your stomach only wants to be filled, but to be filled with pacific foodstuffs and bits of fluff/debris found under couch cushions; your tongue/orifice, on the other hand, demands that "it" tastes good. I don't know about you, but for me and my body, it can get quite heated when these decisions are being made. Depending on the situation and level of hunger, I take sides, make my decision, and live with it. Most of the time, both my belly and mouth are satisfied. On this particular day, all was well...up to a point.

Flash forward, office parking lot: "(gurgle, gurgle) ohhhhhoh...the hermies!" Now, I had to go #3 (you know, excretions of the third kind, or, the #3 quickly turns into #3). Faster and faster, like Frankenstein's monster in a speed walking race, bobbing back and forth. "Must...make...toilet! Oh...Hi Betty, how are the kids?....must...make...." I had that tunnel vision thing going on. I knew of only one goal, one fate, one true religion (insert Queen's "One Vision", press play now), and nothing was going to get in my way. I was headed for the one bathroom that I would not have to worry about neighbors or public residue: the private restroom on the second floor. One caveat, however, it was that restroom near Cato's office. I rushed up the stairs, because the damn elevator is too slow. I nearly had a security breach on the way up. Finally, I get up to the second floor from the basement floor, and no one is in the private restroom. Joy! In I go, careful to set the deadbolt, check the toilet seat for prior carnage (none...good), pants down (yes), Newsweek in hand (check), and awaaay we go. Ahhhhhhhh!

It was about halfway into the second wave of #3 that I became cognizant of the "Cato" factor. Oh damn, I thought, he better not mess with me. Doesn't he have any respect?...I've got a medical emergency here. Well, this is where things took off, uh...for the second time. A guy starts yelling and pounding on the door, making a big fuss, making an ass of himself. "Hey, I haven't got all day here. What's the hold up dammit?" With the fan going, and my own fireworks at full finale, I did not scrutinize. I drew one conclusion, and one only, it was Cato. I fired right back, "Hey jackass, you'll get in when you get in! Gethahellouttahere, okay?" Cato would thrive on this response and burst out laughing, but there was no laughing, just silence...then the sound of footsteps hurrying away. I finished my "bidness" and then decided to go in and slug Cato in the arm for what he'd done. I walked into his suite only to find that he's having a small conference with his staff. Damn, how'd he do that? I thought.

I didn't want to disturb his conference and went down to the first floor to look at some new artwork. It was then that I bumped into a man, Tom, the head finacial administrator, coming out of the main restrooms. When I looked at him to say hello, he had this wide grin on his blush ridden face. He fessed up, "I'm so sorry. I was the one who yelled at you. I thought you were Cato!" I had a good laugh and explained to him that I thought that he was Cato too. We both vowed to get Cato and make him pay. Tom then went home, and I went back up once I saw Cato's secretary come down the stairs. When I made it up there I could not find a soul. I ventured carefully into the break room to check it out...."HEY!!!!!" Cato jumped out from behind a recliner and scared a buffalo nickel right out of me (the one that I swallowed when I was five).

"Damn you Cato," I exclaimed, then added, "Did you know that you got me and Tom screaming at each other?"

"What..why?" He asked in a half laughing, half perplexed way.

I gave him the whole story, then Cato asked with total straight-faced surprise, "Well, why did you guys think it was me?"

The Birds

A simple post about a virus: Avian Flu. It will most likely evolve into a deadlier virus. It is cliche to bring up the paranoia surrounding the issue, so why bring it up at all? You decide.

A Letter To a Certain Co-Worker: Your Brain is Your Friend (Please Use it).

I've been wondering lately: who was the first person to notice the possibility of life after death--recognize that "Bob" was there and is a person, but now he's not in there. Instead of discarding the corpse as refuse, it's now hallowed and given a ceremonial burial. Where did Bob go? Will Bob ever come back? Who's taken Bob? Will this thing happen to me? Is this not the beginning of myth? These are rhetorical questions. I know that most will believe that it was either Adam, Eve, or Cane (Able didn't have a chance). I'm sure that a few of those kids raised by wolfs would tell you something along the lines of "Bark, bark, bark...awhooooo!" Getting back to the subject, Neanderthal buried their dead. Of course, any bones found in the earth that are older than seven thousand years were put there by Lucifer to trick us, right? So, let's discard the Neanderthal. No, let's go with this: when humans were put here on this earth they knew all the basic civilized stuff already and lived to be like 800 years old. At some point we realized that having babies with our siblings, and parents was bad (I'm curious at what point, biblically, that happened). Oh yeah, there all of a sudden popped up all these other people and cities (because we know that the truth doesn't have to make sense). Don't forget that evolution sucks and will only lead to unhappiness. Use this one too, it rocks: scientists are smug, self serving demons, who's only purpose is to undermine the faithful with "theories" ( Boy, I hope they die of gonad cancer and leprosy).

Okay, I hope that this is not taken seriously. I'm just tired of having people at work try to convince me that Darwin/scientists, Evolutionary theory, and bees are evil. Somehow, they think that if Creationism or Intelligent Design is not taught in schools, fire will rain upon us and Slurpees will not quench our thist. I believe in God, and all that goes with that. Those that know me personally need not fear that I've discarded any of my beliefs, wear my clothes inside out, or generally flipped my lid. Only thing that is different is that I'm a 3rd degree Mason, now. But, I figured out long ago that there are little things called history, science, and critical thinking that get in the way of taking a story literally. Evidence is a bitch. When you read Genesis, is there a point where you start to wonder if the purpose for it is to tell us the "why" and not the "how"? I figured that out long ago, too. Those things are there to teach us a lesson. Yes, there can still be a man named Adam and a woman named Eve that really did live, but if God wanted us to know all the literal and physical aspects of Genesis, the pages would fill the cosmos. Why is this so hard for some people to grasp?

I had a professor (tool of Satan) ponder the creation and this is the gist of what he said:
How could God create something out of nothing? How can you create something without any knowledge of all the chemicals and molecules that make up anything that is something? Did he just say "sheep" and a sheep popped out of thin air? "Wow, it worked! Where the heck did that thing come from anyway?" No, if there's a God of creation he must know how everything works scientifically first, before he could do anything at all.

So, to those that don't know the ass-end of a hypothesis or a theory (anybody who says "it's just a theory" clearly does not understand the scientific process) ask yourself this: is it wise to discount something completely before you have any understanding of it in the first place? In science you can prove something wrong, but you can't prove it 100% right (you can come close, though). That is the fundamental that separates science from religion. In religion, you can't do either, really. You can come to a personal and spiritual confirmation of what is right, but that is beyond science.

Now, let's ask ourselves another question: is it productive to stop our scientific research of earth's and mankind's origins and just say "God did it; let's kick back and drink Kool-Aid"? That's a cop out. If you think science is the tool of the devil, then I hope you also reject medical science, physics, and chemistry too. As long as we're playing the all or nothing game, remember, it's not the research and design of the brakes that stop your car from crashing, it's the asbestos Bible! For 2006, reduce your cognitive dissonance by accepting and integrating a measure of intelligence into your everyday life. Try realizing that God will allow you to learn about mysterious things through the miracle of science, and also be able to worship him and obtain spiritual knowledge through scripture. Novel concept, I know.

Okay, I promise that I'll get back to the funny stuff.

Grunt Time in the City

I did my Christ shopping today--shopping for Jesus is fun--especially in the big city. What big city you say? Big City Anytown, USA!!! I'm bound to keeping a loose cloak of anonymity due to the theme of some of my posts. I must protect the innocent, and most importantly, myself. There are few who lurk here--those few that check in from time to time, that never leave comments, but wonder if I'm talking about them--they know where I live, so I've got to be careful. I'm Just kidding. They don't even read this thing.

So, I go into the city to buy gifts and I was treated to an entertaining series of vignettes. The first one involved a couple of drunken bums in front of a deli. I first thought that they were fighting each other, but it turned out that one was falling over, and the other one was helping him fall over. After they got done falling over each other a few times, they went over to a shop and started to look through the bushes, for what, I don't know. But, whatever it was they were looking for must've been a hallucination. They then started to bang on the shop's windows. The shop keep got the door locked before they could get in. One of the bums then stood out front looking in, while the other one went around the back to find treasure. He didn't find treasure, but relieved himself on the neighbor's Volvo. These guys then saw my brother and I in his vintage 'burban parked in this deli's lot. They stumbled up to us with devious intentions. I grabbed a breaker bar from the middle section and played with it in open view in the front seat. They backed off from us, only to hassle a guy coming out of the deli. We didn't stick around after that.

Second vignette happened on the way to a record store. There is this small park, about the size of a large house lot, near this intersection that we were stopped at. I noticed a disheveled man who looked like he had no idea who he was, where he was, or what was going on. I could see that he was in trouble, but because of the hedge, I couldn't see the reason why. As we made our left turn, I saw through a clearing that the man had his pants half way down and was covered from his backside down in his own evacutory sludge. I came pretty close to vomiting. I probably should have called the police to help him, but I didn't. Bad me.

Third vignette happened in a supermarket parking lot. An old man, Methuselah I believe was his name, had tried to park his car in the cage that the shopping carts go in. He finally got in the thing, by golly. He dented the hell out of his fender and door doing it too. Oh yeah, he couldn't get out of his car. A bag boy came out and told him that he couldn't park there. The man smiled, then flashed his handicapped parking badge. He finally figured out that he couldn't park there. Have you ever seen a car drag a shopping cart stable around a parking lot before? Well, I have. A pretty nice Lexus was victimized by this man and his mobile shopping cart station, as well.

Do I sound at all callous? I bet I do. While I bought gifts for Jesus, I didn't help any of these people out. I either felt threatened, repulsed, or amused by them, but did nothing to make their situation better. Christ would've helped them all. Would you?

Cheeseball's Revenge

Who here stuffs themselves with work goodies around this time of year? Everybody, I assume. Sometimes, those holiday goodies strike back. They leave us tormented and disabled, or even worse, we end up in the emergency room with an I.V. drip keeping us from excreting ourselves to death. While I have not had that level of sickness inflict me yet, I count my blessings; because, I'm a damn fool when it comes to what food I choose to eat.

A while ago, I was enjoying a rather bounteous year of holiday booty, snack-wise. People at work kept bringing in the goods and sharing with one another. Such a joyous time, only to go horribly wrong. Come on, humans were involved...it was bound to happen. Somebody left a cheeseball sitting on a computer all day. It was smoked cheddar with bits of ham. My buddy/co-worker and I were not aware that this cheeseball was out as long as it had been. We spent the remainder of our shift polishing this thing off with some crackers. That was on a Friday. Saturday came and all was well. Sunday came and things became interesting.

My buddy looks forward to Christmas, starting December 26th. He compulsively sings Christmas songs throughout the year. If he were just a little more insane, I'd think that he would probably tie a dog to a Red Flyer and throw himself off an overpass, thinking that he and his "reindeer" were out delivering presents to all the good little girls and boys. And for those who are David Lynch fans, think of the character Jingle Dale, from the movie "Wild at Heart". My buddy is alright, but a little ca-ca for coo-coo puffs, or is that the other way around? Anyways, he was going to sing in his church's choir that Sunday. It was this big Christmas program that he'd been looking forward to for a few months. He wanted me to come to see him sing, and so I did.

I'm sitting near the back of the chapel looking at my friend, eagerly waiting for the choir to start singing. I noticed that he couldn't sit still and was grimacing. He's kind of squirrelly anyway, so I thought that he was only anxious. The conductor of the program introduces the choir and their program. I'm seeing an amazingly intense stare coming from my buddy's eyes. He looked really focused. The choir arose and began to sing "Angels We Have Heard on High". So, this man who has been looking forward to this day for months, begins to have trouble singing, but soldiers on. Throughout this first piece he keeps clutching at his belly and wincing. He probably sang most of that song with his eyes closed. Mercifully, the choir finished their first song, and my buddy was still standing up there waiting for the scripture to be read, leading into their next song.

Right before the conductor got up to lead the choir, I noticed that my buddy's eyes started to bulge out. "Oh, no," he exclaimed. People in the congregation and the choir had no idea what the hell was going on--I had no idea what was going on. My friend raced down from the top of the front pulpit area and continued to run for the back of the chapel while groaning. We were all thoroughly confused at this point. The conductor composed herself and got the choir back to business. I decided to go check out what happened to my friend.

I walked down the hall and looked to see if his car was still there and it was. On my way down another hall, I decided to check out the men's room to see if he was in there. I got about ten feet away and I could tell that something was bad was going on in there. I just hoped that there would be something left of my friend after whatever was happening in there was done. I got brave and cracked the door. The smell curled my nose hairs and the air left a hint of acrid sharpness on my tongue. "You alright in there, man?"

"No...leave me alone...I don't feel guh...." I'll spare you the rest of what he said and did after that. The part that made it worse for him was that a couple of late comers had stopped by the restroom to see what all the violence was about. We all knew each other, and some of the guys went and got other guys, which made the whole ordeal for my friend worse. It was hard not to laugh, so we didn't try to stop laughing. I wasn't a good friend. I should've put a stop to it all, but I didn't. I, however, would not get away with the last laugh. Later that day, I got a visit from the ol' fecal fairy, too. It was, rather, more of a screamin' demon, topsy turvy, "Which way did he go, George?" kind of thing, where you don't know whether to sit on the toilet or aim your face into it. Since, I couldn't do both at the same time, I used the waste basket to make the monster noises in. What horrible days those next few turned out to be.

Every now and then, when we're together, all my buddy and I have got to say to each other to start laughing is "cheeseball". Eat carefully.