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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.
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.
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.
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)
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.)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?"
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.
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.
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?
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.
I had a moment of complete discomfort today, and no, it had nothing to do with my GI tract. Sometimes, we all find ourselves in situations where we wish we could flee but can't. I had to discuss some matters of business with a suit today. I first checked in with the guy's secretary to see if/when he'd be in. She was talking on the phone and just said, "Sit down, I'll be right with you." I didn't have to be anywhere in a hurry, so I figured "what the hell" and sat. Just thirty seconds into my lounging, I started to notice that the woman's tone of voice began to warble a little. This shift in tone had a certain seriousness that got my attention. She was talking to someone that I figured was a close friend and the subject was the death of her spouse. Well, from there I thought that she may have just slipped a little emotionally and that she would right herself so she could attend to me--wrong. For the next fifteen minutes, I was treated to a total emotional breakdown that I could not escape. "I'll tell you this Janice, he begged me to let him go. I didn't want to let him go. He begged me, Janice. I thought it was the right thing to do. He wanted to go. What could I do? I let him go Jan, and I've been paying for it ever since. Bob got what he wanted, and I got nothing. I'm so alone. I don't know what to do now that he's dead..." She managed to get that much out before the dam burst. So, there I was watching this woman become completely wrecked. She cried so hard that her makeup was running down her face and she was making those hiccup noises and snot bubbles one makes when it crosses that line from water works to full-blown wailing. I felt really bad about what she must be going through. She had already finished her conversation with her friend and it was just me and her in that room. Never in my life have I wanted more to have my spirit leave my body, so as to spare me from that moment. I didn't know this lady. I didn't know what to say to her, so I didn't say anything. I just kept my eyes fixed on a plant. I mean, I wasn't going to just get up and leave. I thought that if I did that it would only be more uncomfortable to have to go back there again later. I then had an idea that I should ask her if she was okay, but figured I had already let too much time pass where I didn't say anything, and that window had closed. I'm so pathetic. After some time had passed, she had gathered herself together, shuffled some papers, stared at the wall, and flexed her well practiced smile. She then turned to me as if nothing ever happened and cheerily asked, "So what can I do for you today, hon?"
Those of you who are new to Grunt Ahoy will have to look in the archives for a story about a time that I worked with a guy I call The Marlboro Man. That one introduces you to a particular trailer park that was on one of our routes for collection (garbage truck). Certainly not one of my more glamorous jobs that I've had, but a hell of a lot of things happened in that short seven months. This is one of them. Trailer town was right next to a major interstate and just down from an oil refinery and a leather tanning operation. Talk about outcasts, this place had ex-cons, cons in training, a transvestite limo driver, drug dealers, semi-retired hookers. Let's see? I'll talk about Phil, the transvestite limo driver. Phil drove a white limo for a living. Phil wore a red wig, makeup, women's clothes, and falsies of every kind. Sometimes he wore it with pumps and other times with slippers. Phil also was living with a bunch of Vietnamese children. Phil was not Vietnamese. Phil liked me and the Marlboro Man...a lot! Phil never had his garbage all out when we would arrive at his trailer. His favorite damsel in distress routine with us was that he had one last load (don't laugh) that we had to help him with. Phil would come running out in full makeup in a pink feathered night gown, slippers, and lingerie. Always out of breath, panting and hollerin', "Oh, boys...boys...I...I got something here for you!" Worst of all was that Phil had a terrible voice for the part. The actor Harvey Fierstein comes to mind when thinking of how to describe this guy's voice. Now, this is no knock on Sarah Jessica Parker's looks, but this guy's face looked like if George Hamilton's leathery skin was wrapped over SJP's face and was further massaged with a hockey stick. I might be crossing over into mean territory here, but this guy was freaky. So, here's this trailer park livin', limo drivin' tranny's stubbly chest heaving up and down, with eyes that had nothing but dirty intentions to display. Yeah, we took his garbage and we also were nice to Phil. He'd always be over the moon about us taking those last few bags for him. Sometimes, he even offered us pop and stuff. Phil would always send us off with a big wave and a "Bye, boys...see you next Friday!" Damn, how we would laugh after we got out of view. But, I'm sure Phil was pretty mixed up and lonely. He wanted some attention, like a lot of us do, but he really took his act to the freak show. However much Phil creeped me out, I was providing him with the highlight of his day. Oh, and I also learned that foundation does not cover up stubble.
There's this guy that I worked with a while ago, he could never stop thinking or talking about food. He was about 47 or so, and had a wife and kids. But, there was something seriously screwed-up with this man. Whenever he acknowledged anything anybody said, he'd cut you off before you finished what you were saying to him with, "Duh, okay!" He was not joking around. That's just how he sounds.He knew where there were candy dishes, free food, and especially if there were any new fast food restaurant openings within a fifty-mile radius of where he lived. He new of ways to get free food that just boggle the mind. He eats McDonald's for almost every meal, sometimes Denny's or Papa Murphy's, but mostly the big "M".He regularly would tell me about what he ate and how good it was. He thought of me as some kind of demigod of the fast food world since I'd worked at the big one in the past. He liked me to talk to him and explain the process of preparing his favorite foods. His eager eyes would open wide and his mouth would be agape when I'd describe how to make biscuits and such, always finishing my sentences with "Duh, okay!" One day, though, he came to me with a puzzled look on his face.There was one thing, though, that really troubled him. It was a mystery that he felt only I could solve. This is the best I could remember him telling me about it. I'm not exagerating either:I went to McDonald's today and I ordered a Supersize Big Mac Meal like I always do. When I got my food, I tasted my french fries--they tasted like fish! I said to myself, "These french fries taste like fish!" I wasn't sure, so I had my son taste my french fries, he said, "Hey dad, your french fries taste like fish, but mine do not." I really felt strange because I did not know why my french fries tasted like fish. So, I went to the front counter and told the girl that my french fries tasted like fish. She did not know why they tasted like fish, but they did--my son even said so. She did not seem to care that my french fries tasted like fish. So, I demanded that she get the manager to tell me why my french fries tasted like fish. The manager came and I told her that my french fries tasted like fish. I asked, "Why do my french fries taste like fish, but my son's do not?" The manager lady was not very nice to me. She said that the french fries were fine, but they were not--they tasted like fish! I told her that I wanted new fries. She gave me new fries and that made me happy, but I still do not know why my french fries tasted like fish?I offered my best explanation to him (they must've tried to fry them in the fish vat), and he did the "Duh, okay" thing, but still looked troubled and a little traumatized by the whole thing. I found out later, though, that he bothered at least three other people with the same story. People, get down on your knees and thank God that you're not this guy.
I killed a weasel today. This is not a joke. I was blowing some leaves along a parking strip and this weasel pops out of a hole in the lawn right in front of me. I had the leaf blower right in front of it when it came out and the poor weasel got blown right into the street, where a car ran it over. I can honestly say that I feel bad about it. I guess I didn't kill it, but am responsible for it's death. I can't say much more because there might be some litigation from the weasels' family. R.I.P., Mr. Weasel, ?--November 3rd, 2005.
