The Big City Morgue

The Big City

Part 24 of 28

Can you imagine working at the Big City morgue? I can only imagine. You never run into anyone who works there, and never anyone who's been there, so obviously it's hush-hush. Meaning, unless I get a job there, if ever, I’ll can only imagine the craziness, the intrigue it must be. And probably if you tell anyone what it's all about, that's the end of you! You've gone from lab to slab just like that...

But common sense tells us that you’d have new arrivals all the time at the Big City morgue. With enough attendants to keep up with the constant flow, of course. The attendants will occasionally get a newbie attendant and they’re always amused to see the looks on his or her face when the fatalities start piling up around them. To the point, of course, occasionally, where they try to make it look worse than it is, just to keep the newbie on h/h toes. Like on Star Trek, “We can’t take much more of this!” They make it sound like the whole thing’s gonna blow and there'll be body parts strewn everywhere.

I have some idea of what harried Big City morgue employees must go through. Not based on ever having been at the morgue, but from my employment at a fast food pizza joint once and trying to keep up not only with pizzas coming out of the oven but delivering them. I was there a little over a week and it could’ve been the death of me. My funkiest delivery was to the city limits and a guy on a motorcycle waiting there. That went well enough, he had exact change. My most disappointing delivery -- and there were several -- was to a guy in the shower. “I told them to tell you I’d be in the shower and leave the pizza on the table.” Naturally they didn’t tell me any such thing, so how was I to know to walk in and put it on the table? That guy got a free pizza. I’ve tried that a few times myself over the years and the pizza place hasn’t been as understanding.

It would’ve been a good thing, really, if I'd gone into the morgue business, started out on the ground floor, learned about corpses, where to tickle them to see if they’re really dead, etc. By now, with my aptitude -- unmatched -- I could’ve owned a whole fleet off morgues and set up my own rules. A sign on the door, “I’m in the shower. If you’re here with a body, put it on the table.” Then I come out and see a dozen bodies stacked against the wall, strewn about on the sidewalk out front, etc., and think I need to call someone, but I’m the responsible party. Get out there and clean up the sidewalk before that stiff contaminates the whole earth! We only have one planet! (Of course, once they’ve been thoroughly processed with formaldehyed they’re kosher.)

But before you can own a chain of morgues you have to gain experience at the actual task. I actually might have enough experience. A great number of my own family have gone on to their reward. In fact, every single relative I’ve ever had that was born before the 1930s is dead, which ranges in the hundreds, thousands, and even millions. If I have that kind of experience going so far back, imagine what I could contribute today. Get that on my resume and I might take the Big City morgue system by storm. There's been so much death in my family there’s nothing about it I don’t know.

The Mam & Pap Rodeo

 

Part 1 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Alas, the days of yesteryear are all past. It’s true what the philosophers say, today is always today, yesterday’s always yesterday, but what these terms mean is a deep subject. The saddest thing about time and the passing of time is how stubborn it is, as it's never to return. Until such time, if any, I'm proven wrong.

Speaking from my own rich experience with this passing of time, I think back on the things I did earlier this morning. My dog for whatever reason had trouble doing her normal business, possibly something meant for me from the hand of fate to curse an otherwise beautiful day and slow me down on writing about the rodeo. The circumstances were certainly suspicious, like maybe the sun had a bad night on the other side of the world. And of course I've been messed with by the hand of fate before. I cried out to the gray sky for respite and the sun tried to peek through the thickness of what turned out to be clouds. I’m glad it's now in the past, but the past can be prologue if it happens again.

Then there’s the years gone by. What was once new becomes old. Grandma was a newborn once, later an old lady, and finally passed away when her time came. That’s a downer, I know, but it’s in the natural course of things. Just like someday, alas, the same thing might happen to me. I’m actually already fairly old. But as long as I’m able to pass gas and fake a grin, I’ll keep living and churning ‘em out, posts for my blog as well as days of life hopefully well-lived. I may not get the key to the city — I’m not well known — but it's all been done to death anyway, and I haven’t got time to stand on ceremony.

We’re sharing this month the memories we have in common — you and I — of the well-known traveling rodeo, The Mam & Pap Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo. It happened in the days of yesteryear, and as we speak today, of course Mam and Pap are gone. There's still a rodeo going by that name, which several years ago was bought out by a corporate entity — who hold the name so tightly that even writing this series might have some legal consequences for me. But you won't tell. I have had experience with entanglements like that, but this time I'll be OK. Of course I wouldn't have the money to fight a legal challenge and I'd never expect my readers to chip in a dime (last of the big spenders). So I'm just going to post these memories and hope for the best. I would greatly encourage you to save off copies.

In addition, the series stops well short of the corrupt corporate takeover. The corporate incarnation when I saw it was crap and the show was shelved. They did the takeover when Mam passed away, with Pap virtually senile [try to prove it] when he signed the paperwork. They had clowns in the rodeo that would’ve made better managers than Pap at the end, but they had no legal standing. In years since I’ve gotten drunk with a few of them and they bared it all, the hooks those corporate hawks put in their flesh. There's nothing sadder than clowns sobbing tears of anguish.

Anyway, I hate to bring everyone down. Let's make rodeo whoopee! C'mon, c'mon, let’s whoop it up, get again the spirit of rodeo reverie, forever remembering the wonderful non-corporate version (when it was genuine) of THE MAM & PAP ROYAL SPLENDID TRAVELING RODEO!

P.S. -- I won't be mentioning the corporation again and all the chicanery they pulled on Pap, there's nothing we can do about it now. I stood at his grave one day and cried big tears of grief. Friends, those were the wettest moistest tears I've ever cried. Even stained my shirt. Between my first dog dying when I was 6 and Pap selling out the rodeo for a pittance -- aww, forget it. I just can't say my life has been a hundred percent happy.

The Company Mugs' Mugshots

Part 30 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

This is what the past looks like, formal pictures of guys from the neck up as far as the eye can see. Most of them being a link in the chain that goes back as far as we can imagine, the dark, the slime, the ooze, and that’s just their parents’ honeymoon. They came on the scene exactly as did we, humpa humpa, “Guess what,” Mom says to Dad. In that regard they’re no better or worse, but the same.

But Junior does his thing, climbing as high as President of the Firm! Busy making parts for machines, then as President overseeing the work, engaging salesmen, training them, getting the railroad on board for deliveries. And at the end of the day he sits back in his swivel chair and watches the smoke curling its way from the smokestack into nature’s loving arms. “This is the good life…” he thinks, then remembers, “Damn, Hilda was supposed to call the photographer to get everyone’s mugshot! Hope she did it. Everyone from me down to Buck Tinsdale mopping Warehouse Z, who said he 'reckons as how he can come up with a suit.'"

But all that's in the distant past. It's all done. We wouldn't know Buck Tinsdale from Rockefeller. And if he had a suit or not, no one really cares. I'm just scanning the picture, though, and it looks like everyone has a suit. No bib overalls spotted.

But now the only suit they have to worry about is the one the undertaker put on their lifeless body. And you know how they do that, cut the thing up the back and tuck it under your body. A simple earthquake and you'd be naked. But I guess they do pin it behind the shoulders and press the silk pillow in a little tighter.

Back to the picture: When it came time to assemble the portraits from the president down to Tinsdale, they needed to be arranged to show the pecking order, the hierarchy, without embarrassing anyone. Which was only a minor concern in those days, meant to encourage ambition and drive.

I wonder who the first 10% were to die. I could correlate obituaries with the names, but I can't quite make out the print. They seem to have been obscured somewhere along the line in the chain of custody of their memories. Perhaps out of jealousy in middle management, or later in the transmission of this data so that no one’s memory would be besmirched. I can see that happening. Like by the family of one of the guys, one of the last few to live, who bragged about him and besmirched the others.

A psychic could look at any one of these guys, especially if they weren’t obscured, and figure out their deepest secrets. But what goes on in the parts department behind the farthest stack stays there. Weird, the past has a veto over our knowledge of the future. Telling us in so many words, "You worry about you, let us worry about us. We’re dead anyway, so what do you want to know? 'Is there a literal hell?' We’re not saying, just let this suffice, bring fire extinguishers."

Wow, there wasn't a good guy in the bunch!

Subliminal Messages At The Pizza Place

Our world today is awash in subliminal messages. Are you with me so far? I’m not going to sugarcoat it; I know it’s happening. I want to get into it for a little while, first by throwing out this interesting observation: Why is it so hard to get confirmation from the teenagers and young 20s who work there, at the pizza place? Unless...they are subliminally directed not to expose the works! You're seriously taking your life into your own hands when you go out.

I’ve been thinking along these lines basically forever. Really ever since a friend called me behind the barn to the alley once and showed me his Vance Packard collection, including, of course, The Hidden Persuaders. (About advertising and psychology, how goods are marketed and sold. And the crooked shysters who do it.) Essentially each of us exists as pawns in life in a huge game of “Buy my product or die, you filthy animal! Ve have zo many vays of dealing wid chu.'” Yes, I'd love to wave it off and forget it. Friends, I can’t keep going. I’m old. Let me live out my days and die in peace. I give up! Oh, OK, here's my money, where’s your crappy pizza?

Still, it'd be really nice, if I'm headed for my grave, to get my hands around the scrawny necks of every one of these sleazebags and ring ‘em; who's with me? But I already told you I’m old and helpless; I can't keep up. I’m walking around totally normal, let’s say, when suddenly they start in with the subliminal messages, and it’s like I just had a heart attack. I’m stumbling repeatedly, zigzagging like a pinball, buying whatever it is the Hidden Persuaders are selling. Bastards with the fat cat in his office are watching me on hidden monitors, as well as the kids working for them. It's their job to load the data files, aim the beam, and watch me dance this evil little jig.

There’s a pizza place we go to once in a while. I actually hadn’t been there for probably six months. But I always check the price in the window for the buffet, and, believe it or not, it always goes up. Now, about this pizza place, I'm about 99 percent sure they’ve got a subliminal system up and running. Purring like a cat. Whether it’s actually powerful enough to beam messages from the restaurant all the way to the road adjacent, I wouldn’t swear to that. But that has to be the next step. If they’re doing all the beaming and subliminal manipulation that I claim, they can seriously do anything. If I learned anything in the 1920s and the push toward full rural electrification, it has to be Never doubt the possibilities.

And this post isn’t the first time I’ve mentioned it. I post it and they take it down. But they haven't been able to stop me talking, and when I tell folks my suspicions they about lose their appetite. One dude did unleash an upheaval. Were it not for the subliminal messages aimed at us, he would’ve loosened a complete upsurge. But as it is, somehow — miraculously — folks recover and are again famished and can’t wait to get through the door.

So we’ve established the first step, the reach of the beam. The beam reaches midway from where most cars are parked and the front door. We were there today and I was literally salivating; I was about a quart low before I got to the door. And what did the messages say? They were along the lines of: “Our pizza is mouthwatering good. You simply must come through our doors. You are nearing the heaven of refreshment. Our pizza buffet is heaven on earth. This is the afterlife. Be a sunbeam for God.”

So far so good, we’re through the door. Naturally the price has increased a dollar or two since a few months ago, giving them an extra 75 cents or so per customer with which to tweak the subliminal messages. The random price increase is also meant to confuse the issue. Is this pizza more popular or less? Must maintain status among my peers. The rest of the apparatus is upgraded, new software's running, etc., making it hard to pin 'em down, like apples and oranges.

Let's say now you’ve paid, it’s time to eat. This is the tricky part. Because they don’t want you to eat so much that you cut into their profits. But they do want you to eat enough that you realize you’ve eaten, just not a bite more. (There’s other variables, like if police officers are present. I’m sure they flip most of the apparatus off; the times I’ve been there at the same time as our public heroes, I’ve eaten my fill and have had to be rolled out.)

But here’s how it generally happens. You see the buffet spread out. The messages start in: “It all looks so good, but I must restrain myself so that I’m not rude. Many other customers will be coming in and it wouldn’t be fair to deny them a hot selection.” Some pizza’s older than the other. Naturally I want the freshest and hottest, and always take some, but I suddenly feel “sympathetic” for the older pizza and have to take a couple slices. Why is that? Your sympathetic nervous system. It's always conjuring up sympathetic messages, also telling you not to skip the drink machine, observing how lonely it is, etc. And to choose water, being "good for you." Well, guess what? Water's a cheap hooker, but pizza has to be your wife, worth many rubies. I'm there for the pizza! And the powers that be know that!

So let's say you've now eaten your first slice. Around the beginning of the second slice, they’re already on you with messages about “eating right,” “weight loss,” “looking good for that special someone,” “only thinking you were hungry when you came in,” and so on. See how they’ve changed their tune? You’ve barely eaten a thing and they’re zapping you with “I’m full” or “I shouldn’t eat so much” riffs. It's hard to win. Just writing-down the phrases I feel stuffed!

Maybe I'll get them on the dessert! I try my best to save room for dessert. I approach the desserts, I start to get four or five different things, when suddenly I feel I should concentrate on “Quality vs. Quantity,” and brag later about having had a responsible dessert. Where'd that message come from? I don't think like that. I've been a dessert hog since I was three. Maybe two or younger.

Be that as it may, it's desserts at the pizza place I want now. But where has the time gone? It seems that time's run out. In my mind I'm hearing subliminal messages like crazy. That it’s time to hit the door, because, as everybody knows, “Traffic will intensify in the next five minutes. There were six wrecks within 50 feet of this restaurant a week ago today, all with fatalities.” Could that be true?

I'm thinking it over, then my mood is brightened at the door. As I'm leaving they’re telling me, “You need to hurry back. This was the most delicious and satisfying meal of your life. You rate this quality dining experience a solid 10. You must tell your friends — any that you judge worthy of such a pleasant time out. They'll thank you for it. You're such a good person!"

Coffee Shop Now Under Billionaire Management

The billionaire, since those innocent days of the craft sale this past Saturday, has become a well-known figure in town. To think! Last week I hadn't even heard of him! Makes me wonder what might happen next week. I might achieve the very last goal of my life, to ride a blimp! Ha! Just kidding, that'll never happen... There isn't a blimp-port anywhere between here and Akron.

Not only is the billionaire well-known, but he's the only thing anyone can talk about. "The billionaire this, the billionaire that." How'd we ever exist before the billionaire? Seriously, I'm asking; he's enhanced every one of our lives to such an incredible degree that, it's literally incredible. May God richly bless the billionaire, with no play on words intended.

So what's it all mean for me today? You may remember, I got one of the free latte coupons for the coffee shop downtown. Which has been "burning a hole in my pocket" ever since I got my hot little hands on it. But when I get something like that, a blessing, a bonus, I like to put it back and not use it immediately. It's a matter of treating myself only when the time's right. For, you see, I've never had the advantages of the billionaire, being able like him to just burn my blessings on a moment's notice. To me, coffee's a precious commodity.

But the good book says there's a time for every thing under heaven, which includes using your free latte coupons. So downtown I went, then immediately I saw a problem. It was like the last night at Porky's; everyone in town, give or take, was there cashing in their coupons. Meaning it was going to take all day to get my free latte. There was a triple layer line winding all the way around the courthouse. With the police then just east, keeping the street open and sending across whoever was next. Traffic was a snarl.

Well, what can you do but take your place in line? I'm glad I had my iPod with me, because I can read my Kindle and it takes a lot less power than the phone. I looked at it like this, What a blessing the billionaire's given me! Not only do I get the day off to read, but standing and walking slowly is also a cool discipline. Add to that the togetherness this city's enjoying, being in line and hearing everyone's take on the billionaire.

Right away, I heard some grumbling, that the billionaire's already bought the coffee shop. I saw Red and Mary close to the front of the shop, greeting people and smiling. Obviously they were happy with their new-found fortune, and wanting people to see there were no hard feelings. It's only right that they were so well-compensated. It's all good. The billionaire will spruce up the place and maybe bring in some better menu options.

As the line winded along, eventually I was on the verge of the street and got my police escort across. When, who comes out to talk to the folks entering but the billionaire! He remembered me, too, a very lovely gesture, recalling the quality of my Easter bunnies."The Easter bunny guy!" I was careful not to talk inside baseball, since there's no reason to screw with people's head. I remember he said that.

Inside the coffee shop, everyone was happy, but busy. They asked that we either drink our free latte quickly and make way for others, or take it out. The bonus for taking it out was a free donut, which was yet another blessing ... in what's becoming a long line of them.

On my way out, I looked over at the billionaire, so comfortable in his own skin. Which, of course, he can afford to be. His only worry has to be what he's going to buy next ... and why. Whereas a guy like me, I'm happy with a free latte and donut any day of the week. What a precious commodity, as I said.

The billionaire ... he's so cool!

The Believability People

Here's my latest get-rich business idea, and remember, you heard it here first. We are "The Believability People!" If you believe it, whatever, or think you might believe it, we believe it, too! Absolutely.

They're already doing this sort of thing on TV, with the various ghost-search shows, but the only thing they pretend to believe is there's a ghost in every house they visit, and if they talk the ghost will talk back. That's tough to believe. The fact that in 100% of 6,000 cases the ghosts have never uttered a single sentence doesn't inhibit their "belief," because it's an idea done for money. It's a niche show. I like the idea. And I do believe the ghosts will speak to them next time.

But I myself might have to start out small. I could even be available for children's parties; I haven't ruled them out. As I recall, kids believe all kinds of things, things that are under the bed, in the attic, and especially in the basement. When I was a kid, speaking of ghosts, I used to get creeped out in the basement thinking a ghost might be there. It was creepy. My family bought some printing equipment from an old hunchback man, and his was the first funeral I went to, and we had actual bats flying around. It'd be a great setting for his ghost ... and a kid's party.

That actually makes me a long-time expert in the field of believability. And even if I couldn't believe it now as an adult, it shall be believed if it needs to be. I've got it right on my business card: "Credulity's Our Business, Our Only Business," along with another slogan you have to think about a bit: "Believe It or ... Not's Not an Option." Pretty ponies, angelic visitations, leprechauns, Bigfoot, UFOs, and snipe hunts. We're at your service.

I'd be a good one for believing stuff, not just because of the old dead man, but because I make snap judgments all the time. I've got lots of theories I'm thinking about. Then I search around trying to prove it so. I've found it's tough to know what the actual truth is. One big reason for that is, One guy's opinion is as good as the next guy's. That's how I see it, and if your opinion is I'm obviously wrong, I believe you, too. You make a great case. But "If It Can Be Believed, It Shall Be Believed." Why wouldn't it be true?

I'd like to hire an Einstein computer guy to build a super fast computer for me. I'd feed information into it, what people expect me to believe and the results they want, and it'd spit out a paper telling me precisely how to do it. That'd save lots of time, as well as tough mental work for me. It's bad enough that I have to put information in the computer; I'd like to have 2.0, where it already knows what I want. And I'd like it to be so intuitive, all I'd have to do is grunt in its general direction and get good information back. I believe it can be done.

You've probably noticed I like slogans. I've already given a few. How about these? "You Won't Believe Us," "We Ourselves Barely Believe How Good We Are," "Believable Results in Seconds," and "The Toast of Believability." Believability needs someone who's the toast of it. That's me. Raise a glass.

All right, let's work up a sample question, looking at it from every angle, being unbelievable and believable:

"Does Bigfoot exist?" My first instinct is to say no. Rationale: We can find anything if we look hard enough for it. We've been looking for Bigfoot forever. Presumably we have superior minds compared to Bigfoot as a beast. If he exists, we'll find him. Because we can't find him suggests he doesn't exist. Or he's invisible. If Bigfoot is invisible, he could exist. Except anything that doesn't exist will naturally be invisible. If he's invisible in that sense, then he doesn't exist. If he doesn't exist, who are we looking for? And how do we expect to find him if he's invisible. We might mistake air for Bigfoot. I'm right here in a room with air. If air's Bigfoot, I'm in danger!

But I don't want to scare off clients so quickly. So let me give my true belief: There isn't one Bigfoot, there's thousands of them. If there's one, there has to be mothers, fathers, children, a community. They're not just beasts, they're super beings who live underground. They have advanced technology, blocking our tracking devices. They monitor our TV shows about them and laugh. Mostly because we've sent out the stupidest single-tooth hillbillies to look for them. Still working off a fuzzy video from 1966. You want to know what else is underground? Water. Bigfoots are down there pissing in our aquifers. That's what's making us stupid. By the way, they think the aquifers are theirs.

Everything I've said, you can believe it. It's all true. "Changing Credulity to Credibility Since 2015."

February -- We Barons Confer

The beginning of February brought with it a meeting of the various barons of society. I was eager to get together, being consumed with the issue of February and its continuance as a month on the calendar. To which I am opposed.

It's always quite an assemblage of power brokers, myself the Baron of Blogging in conference with the Baron of Politics, the Baron of Business (not pictured), the Baron of Industry, the Baron of Banking, and the Baron of the Church. Our overall mission is to keep society on track, nudging here and there where it seems appropriate. The Baron of the Church asked the Baron of Heaven's blessing, then we went into session.

Among the items on the agenda was the February Question, a hobby horse I often ride. Naturally, I came in for some good-natured ribbing, the Baron of Business saying, "What about Groundhog Day? The people need it to brighten their dreary lives, being, as they are, little more than boils on the backside of existence and, worse, knowing it." I pointed out, logically, that groundhogs would still exist without February, and sought the Baron of the Church's acquiescence to that point. He seemed to consider it an inscrutable question.

I was then surprised when each baron spoke against February.

The Baron of Banking said that a short month makes their bookwork more complicated, especially with the occasional Leap Year. "That one damned day every four years makes Y2K seem like a godsend." The Baron of the Church nodded in silent affirmation, and said, "The Lord likes balance and is put-off when it's missing. Plus the Church could use more Sundays in the year, not fewer. But with February, I don't know if there's two or three Sundays at the most. It's something to pray about."

The Baron of Business, always more brusque, took the side of the businessman. "Let the Church fend for itself. It has a Higher Power. We've got the bottom line. For us February cuts both ways. Yes, if we had more days to work with, we'd make more money, a huge plus. But factor in this, that if we don't meet our goals, February is our biggest excuse: 'We ran out of time.' See? We put the goods out and we open the doors, but we're not in charge of time itself!" I pointed out, rightly, that he should work more closely with the Baron of Politics.

The Baron of Politics, seizing my opening, cleared his throat and took the floor. "Baron," he said, addressing Business, "I do have the power over time, as in the principle of Daylight Savings Time. If you're willing to get up a few days earlier, I could make it January again right now, February be damned! We just need to work more closely together. You put your hand in mine." At this point Church shifted uneasily before admonishing, "No sir! Put your hand in the hand of the man who stilled the waters!" Politics, knowing he'd overstepped, smoothed troubled waters, saying through clenched teeth, "Point well taken."

The Baron of Industry, a man of action and few words, gave his opinion another way. He took his jacket off and flexed the bicep on his right arm. We watched amazed as a brief tattoo video showed raw materials being delivered to a factory. He shook his arm and the second video showed the factory manufacturing goods, all so harmonious. The final time he shook his arm it showed a fleet of trucks taking goods away for delivery. I interpreted his point for the group: "Destroying February, if that is our goal, is a step by step process." 

Concluding then, as host, I gave the summation: "Gentle Barons -- Banking, Politics, Business, Industry, and Church, as the Baron of Blogging I am a man of letters. In my work, I must know the great rhetoric and logic, the prose and poetry, that have graced mankind's history. For example, of the five of us, none quotes Shakespeare more than I. Who said, "A rose by a totally different moniker would waft out a scent as pure and sweet." Proving one truth, "Yes, February is a month, the other months are months, but it is entirely inferior, yielding a noxious stench. Simply put, it must be destroyed here and now or this conference will have been a failure!"

The meeting went quiet and I was embarrassed. But the merciful Baron of the Church took the gavel from my limp hand and dismissed us to a time of coffee and sharing how our wives are doing. Since I'm unmarried I could only listen with interest and envy.

We Remember Your Birthday

This is a get-rich-quick scheme I thought of, in honor of my own birthday coming up. Being close to 62, I know how much birthdays mean to people. I light a little candle, pray for my soul, smear blood on the door, and I'm ready for another year. Beats shivering in the dark, doing nothing proactive, just waiting for the Reaper.

The idea is along the same line as the flags you can buy that have "flown over the United States Capitol." Sounds very impressive, till you realize there's someone raising and lowering flags all day and night -- my understanding. If I'm right, they might fly for a few seconds, then they're down again. Meaningful stuff, especially when you think of the halfwits working below. Are you much smarter? Apparently not.

My idea isn't as crass as that, really. It would actually provide a good service for folks who don't have many friends. And our sentiments would be absolutely sincere -- guaranteed no cynicism. You send in an easily affordable $9.99 ($10 if you will), and we spring into action. We read the card you filled out. Say your birthday is February 12, so bright and early that day we light a candle and offer a prayer on your behalf. Touching.

And since not many people are born in February, because it's such a short month, I believe we could do it up really good, plumping up the festivities with an extra helping of sincerity. You, back home, are feeling the love, somehow, probably after receiving the email letting you know it's all been accomplished.

The problem, of course, would be that eventually we'd be getting cards by the truckload, and it'd be much more of a logistical problem. Some folks wouldn't have the sense to put in the right amount of money; you'd always get them; so we'd have to come up with a policy of how to handle it. If we sent it back, maybe they'd just give up and we'd end up with nothing. So we'd probably go ahead and do something for them and let it go.

The other big problem would be keeping up with the candles and prayers. With big volume, I can see us just methodically lighting candles and blowing them out all day and figuring that covers it. As for the prayer, sooner or later we might have a prayer sticker printed and just be slapping it on top of the previous 40,000 stickers. It's easy to imagine myself going for the Guinness record for successively applied stickers. You could literally have the stack 6 feet tall and it wouldn't topple!

Everything's going great. We're honoring the terms, and pocketing the ten dollar bills, along with the occasional person shorting us, until a disgruntled employee secretly records the system. I'll admit it up front, there's always going to be a bad apple. Like the restaurant guy who bathes in the sink. One of these bad apples will have his shorts stuffed with money, then be seen "lighting" the candles with a blowtorch, and, in place of the usual prayer sticker, be affixing some rude sticker he got from a gum machine, like a Hell's Angels skeleton head or something.

A video of this shows up online and we're immediately shut down. There's a class action suit and I'm sent to prison, which I could never stand. I don't know if I've ever mentioned on the blog, that I once toured an actual prison. The restroom is a big open room, bright white, with stools lining the walls, disgusting in every way. That'd be terrible, along with whatever else goes on there. I'd hate to wake up someday, like on my own birthday, going, "Why couldn't I have just celebrated my own damned birthday and left well enough alone?"

Mental Parasitism -- Organization Man

The following is a record of my inaugural communique with our membership upon the demise of the old Institute of Mental Parasitism and the immediate arising of the new:

Demonstrating the reach and power of my blog -- the rallying point of our revolution -- the old Institute of Mental Parasitism has been destroyed. The word went forth and mental parasites the world around have responded. You canceled your membership, simultaneously receiving details on membership in the new Institute, under my aegis, and most who are qualified to join us have already done so.

The few stragglers who have not joined, who have not even submitted the first of their paperwork, we can only surmise, are lukewarm, or have waited to see which side would be victorious before committing themselves. Those people make me sick, and if they do not submit at least a note of inquiry, and I mean pronto, they will find themselves completely out, unacceptable to one and all.

The new Institute of Mental Parasitism, a dignified name that replaces what came before -- the old Institute of Mental Parasitism -- I promise will be an organization of complete integrity. It will be an organization of compassion, forever untainted by ambition, corruption, greed, and malevolence. Our goal -- our only goal -- will be to provide everything that you, our honored members, need so you may be all you can be in our common cause.

Once again, after many tiresome years of constant shenanigans by the scurvy monkeys who ran the old Institute, then eventually ran it into the ground, you have an Institute to be proud of. As far as we of the new Institute are concerned, the scoundrels who mismanaged the old Institute will never again be a part of our community. They have already been left behind, left fend for themselves, if they're able, and we can only hope that they shall be consumed in some way, enveloped, engulfed, and destroyed.

Not to belabor to the point of tedium their despicable stewardship of the organization, we can only say their mismanagement and exploitation of us and our resources was completely intentional. I personally tied President X to a chair and mentally consumed him for the space of an hour, nearly wasting his mentality down to its bare nubbins, before taking even one mental breath. And I can report my findings, that Mr. X had -- and for this reason we might perhaps honor his memory in a small way -- some small degree of regret for his perfidy.

In working through the data gleaned, it shakes out like this: The more Mr. X exploited the organization, the more he regretted it. The nature of his regret, however, was not positive. It was a case of seeking to destroy, out of self-loathing, that which he at one time loved. So Mr. X did the sad work of exploitation and regretted it, but then only doubled down on his destructive impulses. Recall, I took in his mentality, and was able to discern this much and more, so of course I'm not feeling 100% at this time.

I have also given an executive order to remove Mrs. X from all Auxiliary work, effective immediately. It is good to note that she has been completely innocent in this whole matter. And yet we suspect were she left to continue, she would foolishly seek to advocate for her husband. And with no one to give credence to anything she says, we fear she might initiate other terrible works of sabotage against us. Therefore Mrs. X has been banned from all Institute facilities and meetings. If at any time you see Mrs. X where she should not be (let the reader understand), please notify security immediately and they will deal with her.

Please let me express my personal regret that any of this has occurred, that it came to this. You didn't ask for this fight nor did I. We were guilty of nothing, unless it be trusting people too much, too readily. Warning signs were there, of course, but most of us were not in a position to recognize them as anything other than static on the wire. The investigation continues, however, to ferret out anyone who did know, or were in a position to know and did nothing.

I cannot comment to any real extent on the investigation, except to say that I hear there are potential suspects who must be dealt with. I have directed our team in the computer side of records to correlate the data in such a way to determine if any of the "lukewarm" ones, noted above, who have not completed their paperwork for admission to the new Institute, may be among them. If so, we will have a better handle on their hesitancy. If found complicit, naturally they will be excluded. It is to be seriously regretted that we shall not have the benefit of their dues, but the cost of integrity at times is high.

Friends, all around me I can see and hear the hustle and bustle of the new Institute's staff, eager beavers each one, and I am pleased. But I now ask your leave to be excused for a time, to rest and recharge. The simple fact of the matter is that I am not by nature an Organization Man. Those of you who have tasted my mentality -- in private session -- will attest to that. Even without mental parasitic activity trained on me, but only from the day to day grind we're dealing with, I feel myself nearly drained. And so I must -- I'll repeat that, I must -- leave our world headquarters for a time. Perhaps to sleep, more likely to sequester myself away in the dark corner of a university town coffee shop, to train my attention, to direct my focus, on the eyes, face, lips, hands, feet -- the entire body -- of vital, vibrant subjects just waiting, desirous and even begging (however unconscious they are of it) for a mental parasite to completely sap them. I shall become stronger as their depletion proceeds.

One day -- I hope soon -- I shall regain my strength, thanks to those unwilling subjects and thousands of others. Then you and I shall together do the day to day work of running this great organization -- the best little Institute of Mental Parasitism in the world, the new one, run by men of integrity (along with some minor help from the ladies Auxiliary), world without end.

DBKundalini Ass-kicking Service

Today's a big day for me! It's the one year anniversary of my business, DBKundalini Ass-kicking Service. I have to tell you, I was a little nervous when I started out. I had a number of friends who foresaw nothing but doom and gloom. They thought they were being cute when they said I'd be the one getting his ass kicked. Well, they were wrong. Business is good, I'm keeping busy.

It's frankly amazing the things that have happened in one little year. I have a few guys in town who simply enjoy having their ass kicked, hard. I do the best I can, although, to confess, I have a little arthritis in my kicking foot (I'm rightfooted). But I'm saved because mine's the only ass-kicking place in town. I do all I can to send them out with a smile on their face and a sore bottom in their pants.

I don't mind the arthritis so much when I'm making money, as you can well imagine. But I made a major mistake in this regard trying to gin up business. You know those discount cards civic groups sell? They list a business, then there's a freebie or discount. The pizza place gives a free order of break sticks with purchase of a pizza, the bowling alley gives a free half hour of bowling with the purchase of 5 pitchers of beer, and of course a hair salon offers a eye wax for a measly $5. Notice the common denominator there? They're buying something, unlike mine. In my ignorance I offered three free ass-kickings period. It's tough, since the average person with an ass is content with three kickings.

Still, life is good. To make up for that, I get lots of recommendations from doctors and lawyers. It turns out doctors are more frustrated with their patients than they let on. A guy drinks more than he should, for example, you'd think that'd be good for the doctor; he's going to need more care. But doctors look toward a more distant horizon, keeping the patient on the hook as long as he can. Early mortality (as in drunk driving) means lost money, especially when you consider the true bonanza they're look forward to, an average of 14 surgeries for every guy over 80. So they find "something wrong" with their ass and send them to me for $20 to $25 worth of kickings. I like that.

Lawyers are about as good, as they're usually acting on behalf of an aggrieved spouse. The guy's been cheating, the wife wants a divorce but wants the husband's weekly paycheck. She agrees to keep him, but only if he knows there's an endless stream of severe ass-kickings in his future if he misbehaves. The husband knows he has to submit, because it's cheaper occasionally denying her expenses while married than divorced. That leaves more money for his mistress. I don't care who wins or loses. I just take the money, kick his ass, and let it go.

One of the big surprises in the last year, something I didn't expect in my wildest dreams, has been a contract with the university for their losing sports teams. Basketball is entirely successful, but football is a total bust. Which is bad for the town but great for me! Because written into their scholarship is a nasty little agreement that at "the coach's discretion" they agree to "counseling, verbal or physical, as he shall choose, excluding the death penalty, of course, but including ass-kicking." This is amazing stuff. I have these huge guys who could kick my ass east, west, north, and south, if provoked, and there they are, lined up, getting their ass kicked by a wimp like me. Big bucks, too, university standards ... they pay five times the normal therapeutic rate! I just keep my fingers crossed, that they win enough to make the kickings seem beneficial but still lose enough to keep them necessary.

I've had to turn down a few clients. One thing I will not do is kick the asses of kids. Unless I'm personally and severely provoked, and even then I haven't been able to catch the little shits. Again, my arthritis, and, at the end of an average day my leg's dead tired. Which they know. I came home one day and these kids had picked every pussy willow off one of my pussy willow trees, and had them stacked up on my fish-cleaning table. I went limping toward them, moving my foot in a slow swing, and they dashed out of the yard quicker than snot. Still, like I said, I've turned down clients. Home school parents are often frustrated, and they're always calling me. "Junior's falling behind in his scores." I'm all like, "Then get him a different girlfriend ... I'm not kicking kids' asses!"

One whole year. And now, if my leg holds out, I'm going for two!

Conquer the Darkness! -- Light Bulb Hoarding

I think I've about got this light bulb hoarding thing whipped. At the present moment, barring looters and greedy relatives, I have enough light bulbs to last me ... forever ... using them at a typical rate of three a week, not accounting for decreased longevity of said bulbs with the passing of time. I've never seen an expiration date on a light bulb pack.

For any fellow Ayn Rand fans out there, you might say I've gone Full Galt when it comes to light bulbs. I've cornered as much of the market as I need, and I'll be stingy with my stash. The only way I'll even think of disposing of any is if, say, blackberry jelly, which I love, is suddenly in short supply and there's a fellow Galter with a warehouse full of jars. Or, say, they come up with an iPhone battery that miraculously breaks the hour barrier.

That doesn't mean I can't say how I did it, which was secret till now. I've got so many bulbs now, nothing can stop me! I talked to a wholesaler, who shared with me some insider forms. (He helped me in exchange for three jars of jelly.) I rented a mailbox in Arkansas, pretended to be a member of the Walmart family, Sam Walmart, in fact, and started making contacts. Light bulb companies got right back to me, of course, kissing my ass in ways I didn't know existed, extremely pleasurable. It took about a week and in no time my half acre was piled high with bulbs, 45s, 60s, 75s, 100s, and even a few thousand votive candles, which I like for my devotions.

I cashed in some of Grandpa's old AT&T stock, basically emptying one of the mattresses, so now everything's taken care of. Then it was a simple matter of renting a few dozen semi trucks, buying out a local storage company, evicting all the previous tenants, and getting the bulbs and candles neatly arranged. Naturally, I did some spreading around; not everything went to the storage facility, in case of sinkholes or thieves. I also got several thousand safety deposit boxes, and bought the rights to a massive climate-controlled cave, previously only housing classic Hollywood films and TV shows. Let 'em crumble!

Of course I don't have a perfect count on how many bulbs I ended up with, but it has to be over a million. (Wholesalers give you bonuses). That's how much I hate the new squiggly light bulbs! I tried one a few years ago. I had it in my bathroom. You'd go in in the dark, click on the light. There'd be a faint glow -- dismally faint -- that would be nearing its cycle of powering up, around 65%, by the time you were all done and searching for the roll of toilet paper, loose since I hate wasting time putting it on the thing and prefer to have it lying about. That's terrible, my family says, and I say the same goes for the squiggly light bulb's performance.

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See also: How Many Light Bulbs Will I Need to Hoard?

Keep It Simple, Stupid, Because If You Don't...

 
Sometimes I'm sorry about the things I post here. Of course, I always know who I am and what I'm up to, but then I forget that everyone else might be confused. So I hit my head and say: "Duh, you should've thought of that!"

In other words, all those times I am guilty of forgetting the very first rule, which is KISS, "Keep it simple, stupid!" Making me the stupid one there, in case you didn't get that. I've actually expanded the first rule, making it more helpful, which might be useful to share here: KISSBIYDTSWBICATYO. Get that? Obviously, it stands for, "Keep it simple, stupid, because if you don't, then someone will become instantly confused and turn you off!"

I've had a number of people "turn me off," probably because they were "instantly confused." Again, I know what I'm up to, but it's not perhaps immediately clear to everyone else. So it's very, very, extremely important -- Note to Self -- that I remember this rule. It's important, so important that I'm going to memorize it: KISSBIYDE. No, KISSBIYDS, damn, missed it again. Let me look: KISSBIYDTS (the S is for someone, not E for everyone) Then the end, WBICATYO. I think I can remember that as a W followed by BIC AT YO, a BIC pen @ YO[u]. OK, got it!

So why are people so instantly confused? I hate to be potentially insulting, but clearly they're not entirely focused in. Teachers tell me these days it's all video games and graphic novels, dumbing down everyone. To which I shout a hale and hearty, "Amen!" I'm sick of video games and graphic novels dumbing things down! I asked at the library why they even stocked video games and graphic novels, and they said they didn't really want to. But, it seems, when you've got morons as your audience, they can be very demanding. They throw fits and pee in the book deposit!

But to be magnanimous and not alienate these easily alienated people -- wilting violets -- naturally I will take the blame. That's only right, keeping with the first rule of customer service: TTBBIYPIWIBTWBIOJON. You probably remember the old rule: "Take the blame, because if you put it where it belongs, they will be instantly offended, justified or not."

I've known a few people in business. And believe me, they're rolling their eyes something fierce at this stuff. Always having to cater to the customers, it's an understandable drag! But the businessman gets 'em back in private, tossing around these acronyms. Like, TCAREWTNWIAATT, "The customer's always right, except when they're not, which is actually all the time!"

A Great Victory -- We Closed Down a Bed Store!

You probably remember -- it's great to be notorious! -- me sharing before about my church and our pastor, Pastor Wadd. He's really undisputed in this, being well known as the best sexual addiction counselor in the three-synod area. Some of his teaching can be found in my old post, Pastor Wadd -- The Sexual Root of Everything. I'll admit, he can be tough to talk to. He's got a rock-solid stare and a mind that only goes one place.

Over the last few years, one of our church's ministry drives has been to take on bed stores and the sales of mattresses in general. We've pushed hard, a continual thrust. For example, we've even done everything we can to delay bed deliveries. The tougher it is to get delivery, the less likely people will buy them. And it's our fervent hope, if we ever get a legislature with a real set of balls, to outlaw the bed all together. Pastor Wadd's teaching on the bed is right on: The bed is the gateway to sex.

(Full disclosure: I myself have a bed -- I keep some of these details quiet -- but it's only because I have a bad back and can't sleep on the floor like the others at church. Nothing else happens there. Very limited frequency.)

Our work, as it turns out, has been something of a thankless job, that is, with the general public. Some of the infidels, the worst ones, have come out to take us on, trying to start pillow fights and the like. But we have marched peacefully, carrying our GOD HATES BEDS signs even in the face of terrific provocation. Bed stores hate to see us coming. One tried the old ruse of trying to kill us with kindness, bringing out water to us on one of those 130 degree days. We just drank the water and kept marching!

Pastor told us, If Moses could walk 40 years, we can make it another 20 minutes. Which was tough. And I know a number of our people went home and just crashed, spread out on the hardwood floor in misery. They were tired, but it felt great to take a load off. And they were comforted in the knowledge that it really does eventually pay off, all the hardship. That's what we're celebrating today.

I was driving by, out on the east side, earlier today, and saw the big signs by the road, "MATTRESS STORE CLOSING," with some of the details on their close-outs on all beds and bed-related products. They even had "Bedman the Dancing Mattress" flapping and waving his arms, now in his last days. They're going all out! Which I guess is OK. They can't very well just set their store on fire; there's other businesses in the area. They need to get rid of the beds somehow, although a bonfire in the country would be preferable.

It's really great, though, isn't it? Celebrate with me! It's gratifying to think that I did my little part in this, all part of a higher calling. Pastor really is right about the bed and sex. You hear of people going to bed together all the time. City councilmen with their secretaries. Congressmen with congresswomen, in their own kind of congress.

And of course there's the average man, out cheating on his wife, shacking up at the cheapest motel he can find, with some loose chick from work. I can just picture how it must be: Furtive glances all around, parking around back, having fake names picked out, Walt Defug, Alan LaCarte, Izzy Wither, etc. Pulling the curtains, locking the door, using protection, eying the bed, pulling down the covers, slowly undressing one another, her beautiful little black bra, looking deeply into one another's eyes, arranging the towels on the bed, skyrockets in flight, lovingly caressing her sexy tattoo, kissing the downy fuzz on the back of her neck, his fingers in her blond silky hair as they both doze off. Things you hear about. Terrible stuff. Too bad he couldn't just go home. Lay on the floor with the old familiar wife. The mudpack, the curlers, that old housecoat. Nothing new there. She used to be good. And forget the bed.

OK, that's the big news for the day! We're celebrating the demise of the bed store! Yes! The loss of jobs, a ton of money on the merchandise, and all the upheaval it brings! Hallelujah! But I suppose our celebration will be brief. There's several other bed stores in town. We've still got our work cut out for us.

Noisy-Neighbors Church Moves Out

I was driving through town today and was interested to see that a particular church had moved out of their spot.

I have a friend who works in the same building, and he's told me a thing or two about the church, in short, that they're noisy neighbors. But since there's no limits to religious liberty, more or less, no one's been able to quiet them.

It reminds me of one time I visited a church with a friend of mine when I was a kid, and the preacher called on the congregation to make a lot of noise, so the folks of the neighborhood would know they were there. Back then there was no air conditioning, so the windows were open, and he thought that would be a good testimony. "Let's let them hear us way down the block!"

The church in question in this office building isn't the same kind of place. They keep their windows closed to keep in the cool air in the summer and heat in the winter. But up till they left they were still very noisy.

So here's the set-up. We've got a three story building. On the first floor is an office supply store along with some private offices. The store is where my friend works. On the third floor is something else; I can't think of what it is exactly, except people were definitely there when church was in session. And on the second floor was the church. They rented space, got it started, and now, presumably having built up a healthy-sized congregation, they've moved on.

The nature of the church. It's not one of your standard denominations. But some kind of church -- involving foreign practices -- that tends to make a lot of noise. If you're below them, of course it's worse than if you're above them, but neither one, reportedly, was all that great. For the folks below, there was jumping, tromping, stomping, and even pounding on the floor. For the folks above, there was actual touching, whacking on the ceiling, along with a few shouts. And even the murmuring of prayers, if you get enough people doing it, creates a disturbance. I probably don't have to note the obvious, that their heads and consequently their mouths were closer to the ceiling than the floor, meaning the folks on the third floor could easily be disturbed by the noise.

I was reluctant to say this. I was going to leave out this one little detail. But I also visited this church one time. Don't ask me why. But I actually did. One day I was looking for a place to park, like a getaway spot to spend a little time. I think I was drinking coffee. And I happened to pull in their parking lot. It was a Sunday. I saw their sign. And I thought, Why not? even though I don't like the discomfort of visiting any church the first time. But at this particular church, not one of your standard churches, they pretty much left me alone. All except for one very nice lady -- maybe they're called sisters -- who explained to me about the wall hangings and whatnot. I asked her about their doctrine and she was kind enough to fill me in. Then the service started, and I can attest that the bowing and scraping and calling out, with an increasing noise level, were real, then the reaching up to the ceiling, etc.

Here's what I wanted to get to, how the noise affects those above and those below. Those below have their own experience of the noise, as is true of those above. The more noise those above hear, the less pleased they are. Likewise, the more noise those below hear, the less pleased they are. Those above are most concerned about the noise that comes their way. And those below are most concerned about the noise that they hear. We're all funny like that! Just so the noise is disturbing someone else, who cares? But as soon as it disturbs us, that's when we get up in arms!

Now that they're gone -- and I'm not sure where they went -- those above and those below will be happy, no more noise. But what if? And I'm not saying I have any inside information, what if they get an even noisier neighbor than the church was? Like another church that's even noisier. Then, one can't help believing, they'd be wishing they had the original church back, however noisy it was!

There's Anger Over Having To Offer Discounts

There's a subject that's always near and dear to my heart, the secret enmity businessmen hold against their customers due to the demands their business makes on them.

It'd be one thing if you were the only so-and-so merchant in town, like the only gas station or the only craft shop or the only pizza place. But because you have to compete against a bunch of other cutthroats, that means you have to offer discounts, and really bend over backwards to get customers. It can be tough on quotas and profit margins. But because a guy needs a job, he has to do it.

I'm real reluctant to buy anything, because I don't want to make these guys feel worse having a sale than they would not having it. Because I've talked to enough of them, I know what they're feeling. One thing I can say, these guys hate debit cards, true. One, they have to pay a little fee every time you use one. That's a very practical reason not to like them. But the second big reason is a psychological reason, because the customer's almost dismissive of the importance of the sale when he's just flashing plastic. Back in the old days, the businessman was more in charge, psychologically, in the transaction, because the customer had to carefully count out a number of bills and pieces of change. The businessman could see the approach of buyer's remorse on the guy's face, knowing that the farther they went in the transaction, the more he had the guy over the barrel. There was something of a victorious feeling in making a sale when the customer was putting some real thought and even sweat into the transaction. But now, they flash the plastic, and it barely registers on their blank visage; what they show, in fact, is a look of entitlement. It puts the businessman in the back seat, or in the inferior position.

I've sold things at craft sales. See one of my posts on selling Easter bunnies at Easter. So I know how livid the businessman is right below the surface. I felt that too. The customer has that sense of entitlement that's disgusting. I saw it clearly when I had to put a discount on my bunnies just to move a few of them. It makes you bitter. And bitterness gnaws on you till it bursts into full rage unless you get a grip on yourself. I think it's good to have a few cardboard boxes and a club right outside the back door of your business, so you can go out and beat and kick them, anything to bring down the rage at having to offer discounts.

Just the other night, I had a guy at a pizza place telling me some of his troubles. He's a guy I've known for some time, so it didn't take long to loosen his tongue. He's the perfect illustration of this business principle in action.

The orders came down from headquarters, sell a large 3-topper pizza for $10. OK, since they're normally between $14-16 -- supposed to be -- that means knocking $4-6 off each one, a killer. So the customer naturally has the audacity to order a 3-topper for $10, then the guy has to say to them, "You saved $5 on your order," or whatever it was. Gritting his teeth the whole time.

I was commiserating, "That's terrible ... you could probably use that $5!" He readily agreed. But he said it apparently didn't matter, because the customers are all going crazy for the discount. Meaning the rest of the menu, the specialty pizzas, and most importantly the profit margin, are suffering. He said, "Everyone goes for the discount. They won't order a pizza at full price anymore. Oh no!" He wiped his hands on a towel, getting off some pepperoni grease. "They're looking for good values. They don't realize it costs us money, which we're losing hand over fist!"

He seemed embarrassed to be unloading on me, maybe since I hadn't ordered yet, and of course I would've been ordering one of the discount pizzas. But since he'd gone that far, he continued, pointing at the drink machine. "And the same thing goes for the free refills -- it's killing us! The worst thing they ever did was give the customer free access to the drink machine!" I saw he had a couple of handmade signs on the drink machine: "Refills for guests dining in only," "No outside cups," and "Even ice costs us something -- please hold down your portions." This I hadn't imagined, and obviously I would've been drinking my fill as well, but of course I didn't dare to now.

He asked what I wanted, but I was a little afraid to order anything, so I made up a story about having just eaten at the big $5 All-You-Can-Eat buffet down the street, and said I was just dropping in to say hello. That seemed to soothe his frayed nerves, because he didn't have to get his hands greasy again making me a discount pizza.

Business is tough. And we can all help out by paying full price. Please think about those discounts you see. They're killing the little guy.

One Car -- Take It Or Leave It - (Atmospheric Remix)

I went by a tiny little car lot today, out in the country. I think they had four or maybe five used cars for sale. A few pennants were flapping in the breeze.

I kept going but I started stewing over how small a car lot could be and still have it pay off. Like what if you only had one car to sell, that's it? One car on the lot, with a few light bulbs and pennants strung around to make it look like a proper car lot. Maybe a modest sign, "Gus's Used Cars -- Let's Deal."

So you pull in, assuming you have a car to get there in, and you check out the selection on the lot. It doesn't take long. So of course Gus comes hurrying out, wiping his mouth and hands from eating chicken. Both of you have your eye on the car -- both you and Gus -- because that's all there is. You're trying to think of something nice to say, perhaps, or maybe you're really interested in the car. And Gus is sizing you up for the angle that will be most suitable to make the sale.

We'll leave you standing there...

I went by a car rental place one time, and the way I remember it they only had one car. Take it or leave it. There it set, waiting to transport the first customer wherever he wanted to go. I was thinking that everyone has to start somewhere, but still it seems like you would start with at least two cars. But if you need to start with one car and build a fleet, or maybe you simply want to stick with one car so the work load won't be so great, it's up to you.

Personally, just speaking for myself, if I ran a car rental place I wouldn't want to disappoint all the other customers who might show up, assuming they would. It's great to have one satisfied customer, sure, but not that great, in my opinion, for the rest of the town to be complaining. Or making fun of a car rental with only one car.

It really struck me ... one measly car.

You could start a taxi service easy enough with just one car -- if you could manage to successfully negotiate all the city waivers. Then to disguise your tiny fleet, every other trip across town you could put a different advertising sign on the doors and people would think there was more than one car. Although, again, it'd be bad for business if you started getting more calls than you could handle.

They'd be saying, "We've seen taxis all over town. What'd'ya mean it'll be four hours?"

One Car -- Take It Or Leave It

I went by a tiny little car lot today, out in the country. I think they had four or maybe five used cars for sale.

It made me wonder how small a car lot could be and still have it pay off. Like what if you only had one car? One car on the lot, with a few light bulbs and pennants strung around to make it look like a proper car lot. Maybe a modest sign, "Gus's Used Cars -- Let's Deal."

So you pull in, assuming you have a car to get there in, and you check out the lot. Of course Gus comes hurrying out, wiping his mouth and hands from eating chicken. Both of you have your eye on the car -- you and Gus -- because that's all there is. You're trying to think of something nice to say, perhaps, or maybe you're really interested. Gus is sizing you up for the angle that will most likely make the sale.

I went by a car rental place one time, and it seems like they only had one car. There it set, waiting to take the first customer wherever he wanted to go. We were thinking that everyone has to start somewhere. If you need to start with one car and build a fleet, or maybe you'll just stick with one car so the work load won't be so great, it's up to you.

Personally, if I had a car rental place I wouldn't want to disappoint all the other customers who might show up. It's great to have one satisfied customer, sure, but not that great, in my opinion, for the rest of the town to be complaining.

You could start a taxi service easy enough with one car -- if you could manage to get all the city waivers. Every other trip across town you could put a different advertising sign on the doors and people would think there was more than one car. It'd be bad for business, again, if you had a lot more calls than you could handle.

Seedy Bars, Tattoo Shops, and Carpet Stores

When they put in the shopping center, downtown suffered. Businessmen lost so much money they either had to pull out completely or build near the shopping center. All the choice spots were taken inside before they got there. But that left the buildings downtown as ripe pickings for what we might call Grade B or C businesses, even D or F.

These inferior businesses are the bane of civilization everywhere. Bail bondsmen, tattoo shops, skidrow bars, and carpet stores. There actually was a street just off the square that we called skidrow even before the shopping center came in. I knew better than to ever go there. It wasn't like the skidrow the traveling preachers talked about in the big cities but it was definitely a wanna-be. Guys standing on one leg, their other foot against the building, smoking a cigarette. Nothing you want to see.

Sure enough, the seedy bars were down that street, luring in the hopeless riff raff that every town is known for, or at least has a few of. Some crooked lawyer's going to be in the vicinity, probably running a legal scam on behalf of the troubled. A tattoo shop carves out a filthy living when their clientele gets roaring drunk. And there's a carpet store, always right there, foolishly thinking you're going to buy carpet.

But it happened just like I said it did: The shopping center was built, the exodus of remaining businesses of diminishing hopes followed, then the downtown area became known for this seedier stuff.

When I see a carpet store to this day it makes me feel sick. Have I ever been in one? Yes, actually, I have. So I know exactly what they're like. I'm in a position to judge.

There's several things you can say about a carpet store. It's as fly by night as any business can be. One day there's nothing, the next there's a carpet store. They didn't come from anywhere, they're not there for any obvious purpose. They sprout up like a poisonous mushroom. All they have is big pieces of carpet, so they can move in on a moment's notice. Usually what you have is this: Another carpet store in another town hears of a vacant building, they split their inventory, and they move in in the middle of the night.

I knew a guy named Sam who worked at a carpet store. He and I worked at the same place next door. Everything was going great, until one day we got up (this is true) and suddenly there was a carpet store next door. No one saw them move in, no one heard of it in advance. The place was vacant, as the pattern always seems to go, then BOOM, there's a full fledged carpet store. We didn't know the guy who ran it, but he looked seedy.

Next thing I knew Sam was working there, like within two weeks of the guy's opening it. I still saw him on breaks and at lunch, that sort of thing, and he acted happy. But I never really believed it. After all, what could be more boring, even more discouraging than looking at big rolls of carpet all day? In fact, I saw the whole thing, for this was the time I was in a carpet store. Sam thought it'd be a good idea if I came to work there too. But my path wasn't meant to go downhill.

Looking back at it now, of course it worked out exactly as I predicted. The business we both worked for is still there -- almost 40 years later -- but the carpet store is long gone. Long gone. I don't know what happened, but I suppose people got wise to the whole thing. Either that or they split off once too often with vacant buildings in other towns. Whatever happened, I haven't heard from Sam since, and that's the real story.